Am Not Your Toy Boy  

‘Toy Boy’ – Pen & Wash WHB . . . 2017

I AM NOT YOUR TOY BOY

Had enough of being your toy boy

I am not a toy

I am marked

‘Not to be toyed with’

It’s happened to me before

I’m much wiser now

Won’t let it happen again

To have my affections trifled with

Is no trifle

Hurts and damages any toy.

So think again dear lady

Find some other mug

One with a wealthier handle

Or one with a see-through wallet

Besides I don’t do the clubs

Not cougar-fodder

I don’t need to re-live my youth

In someone else’s image

We’re not on Route 66

And, for me, selfies are verboten

You catching me in a spin

Texting those wild come-on

WhatsApps

For your later production in court.

Ought to be ashamed – and at your age!

Me – pushing eighty

And you …

I don’t care how you get your kicks

You must be all of ninety six.

On Ageing Gloriously 

‘Old Age & Youth’ …  Pen and ink – WHB.  2017

ON AGEING GLORIOUSLY

Yes, I am getting older now; my prime has slipped away;
But I’m beating off the Harpies who want to bring doomsday.
But the benefits now brought about through all the new advances
Have brought about a change in me, at least they’ve upped my chances.

For, mine eyes have seen the glory never found since I was nine;
I ‘ve cast aside my spectacles reversing my decline.
I’ve got new eyes now, darling, and the cataracts have gone,
So despite my aged torso I will still keep staggering on.

And my new knees tell the story of my better prospects now;
I’m going to try the Great North Run if only they allow,
‘Cos I feel as though I’m twenty four and kicking down the door.
At least I’ll get a few years now before I need some more.

My metal hip has been replaced; I now have one in plastic;
It’s been a great success, although the experience was quite drastic.
I can hobble with the best of them and the stairs I cope with ease;
Yes, walking is a doddle now and life is just a breeze.

My hearing aid’s a bonus, I know what’s being said on telly.
My confidence I have regained, I’d rival Machiavelli;
The end still justifies the means; these life aids serve their purpose,
But instead of “Turn the volume up”, I’m wishing they were wordless.

My carpal tunnel surgery stopped my fingers feeling numb.
I’m twice the man I used to be, an artist I’ve become;
So now you see me in my prime reflecting on new marvels;
My hands are fully functional now; I have not lost my marbles.

My lumber corset gives me an efficient spinal brace.
My posture’s as it should be now, no longer a disgrace.
I stand upright and hold my place wherever I may be,
Just the occasional little blip, one you’ll hardly ever see.

The wig I found provided me with a new lease of life;
No longer bald and reticent – I’ve got a new-found wife.
I’m wond’ring how surprised she’ll be when we get into bed,
Perhaps she’ll want a payback when she finds she’s been misled?

They gave me my libido back with just a small blue pill;
Revived my passion and my lust – be that for good or ill.
I must say I’m enjoying those long lost thrills again,
No longer from the Tantric Arts, do I have to abstain.

They now give me a freebie both for Christmas and tv
Free bus and tube rides I can get, I’ve become a devotee
Of touring round my city in a bus as if in state
Suits me to be busy now at the age of eighty eight.

A pension I am grateful for, although it’s not enough,
I paid my dues for forty years, I did think that was tough;
Yes, the National Health helps me a lot, I get my medicine free,
And if I want a pick-me-up, my nurse is good to me.

My mouth has been replenished with a set of new white teeth;
I thought it best to have that done before they bought my wreath.
I look forward to my time in Heaven, but perhaps it’s just as well,
That I can still enjoy life now – in case I go to Hell.

JUST FOR A JOKE

POOLE  is a large coastal town and seaport in the county of Dorset, on the south coast of England. The town is 33 kilometres east of Dorchester, and adjoins Bournemouth to the east.  The town borders Sandbanks, a gorgeous beach backed by some of the world’s most expensive chunks of real estate.  I came across this defaced Borough Council notice board when I visited some years ago.  The Limericks followed . . .

Some smart Alec just for a joke
At the burghers of Poole took a poke.
He committed a crime
By altering a sign,
Causing mayhem with these gentle folk.

When they took their dogs for a stroll
Their pets lost all sense of control
And without more ado
They started to poo
Not thinking to bring toilet rolls

When the Poole cops arrested the joker
He said, “I lost all playing poker.
I thought he wins who dares;
I had toilet roll shares.”
He turned out to be a stockbroker.

VINEGAR

‘Fish & Chip Shop’ … Pen and Wash – WHB 2017

VINEGAR

 Sometimes  

I feel like a priest

In a fish and chip queue

Quietly thinking

As the vinegar runs through

How nice it would beTo buy supper for two

By Roger McGough

 [ From:  Penguin Modern Poets 10 – Henri; McGough; Patten ]

This gentle compact verse catches, in just a few phrases, some of the emotion of a humdrum everyday activity and wistfully points to the suppressed yearnings of both a personal and a monastic life.

Roger McGough  (1937 – ) is an English poet, broadcaster, playwright, and children’s author . He presents the BBC Radio 4 programme ‘Poetry Please’.   He is one of the leading members of the group which have become known as The Liverpool Poets’.

Memory’s Half-Truths

‘Half-truths’ . . . Pen & Wash – WHB : 2017

Memory’s Half-Truths

Half-truths abound in memory
Reflections from my maculate mind
Those part-remembered escapades
Seem partly sighted, partly blind.

Did I when young once ever dare
When roaming in the hills
Explore that damp disused mine shaft
And risk entombment for the thrills?

Was it alone that I did climb
That thrusting rock, that mighty drop,
Without a thought for life and limb
To view the valley from the top?

And when we found that dark Blue Lake
Did I join others for a swim,
Or did I watch whilst others dived,
Afraid to join them? Memory’s dim.

That time, when rambling, I explored
Deep into that hillside cave.
Was I alone and did I dare,
How was it I could be so brave?

And did I once, my memory fades,
Spend a night upon Cass Rock
Light a fire, sleep on the stone,
Or was that all just poppycock?

My youthful escapades were many,
Risky games and daring pranks.
I’ve boasted that I once was brave,
Ever the one for breaking ranks.

I’ve told myself so many times
How bold I was, adventurous child.
And yet I know, if truth be told,
I always was but meek and mild.

A Sign Too Far . . . Again

I have, on two previous occasions, dealt with the modern day scourge caused by the multitude of signs and advertisements which so often deface our side-walks and pavements. Below, I use my own photographs again to illustrate my views on this subject . .

A SIGN TOO FAR   . . .  TAKE 3

So often have I been
attacked by signs
Throughout the day
Plethora
Of signals
Face me as I walk
Innocuous one by one
But fearsome in phalanx
Threatening my advance
Discouraging my progress
Terrorising travel
Note to myself –
Beware
Be wary

A sign
Is a sign
Is a sign
I need to tell you that
I need to let you know
To say it loud and clear
Please notice me
Notice my notice
If I say it often enough
You are bound to notice
Allow me to grab
Your attention
And your money
Let me
tell you about myself
I’m not shy
Passer by
I’ll tell you why
Just shout it out
And cry
To the sky
Saying by the by
Please notice me
Please don’t go
You need to know
I’ve much to say
In every way
All through the day

Too much
Too far
I say
Just clear the way
And let me pass
Your sinister intent
Not heaven sent
You need me more
Than I need you
So please take notice
I refuse
To take notice
Of your notice.

Photographs … WHB – 2017

The Writing’s On The Wall

Pen & Ink Sketch … WHB – May 2017

The Writing’s On The Wall

(Verses using idiomatic expressions)

It’s all over bar the shouting,
Pride goes before a fall;
Another nail in the coffin,
The writing’s on the wall.

“You’ve not a hope in hell’, they said
You’re doomed to sink like a stone.
Abandon hope who enters here.”
But the devil looks after his own.

I will not beat about the bush
Nor bark up that wrong tree.
Yes, it’s back to square one I go,
‘Twixt devil and deep blue sea.

Some time I’ll bite the bullet again,
But till the bitter end
Blood, sweat and tears it is for me
Till I am round the bend,

No, I’m not about to bite the dust,
Nor to push up the daisies,
For I am still alive and kicking,
Singing my own  life’s praises.

Yes, the cleft stick that I am in
Is just a cock-and-bull story,
For I will last till the cows come home
In my Land of Hope and Glory.

And when the hue and cry are over
Then I’m  off to the Land of Nod.
When those hell’s bells have sounded.
All’s still in the lap of the gods.

Yes, every dog will have its day
The writing is on the wall
Every cloud has a silver lining
I’m not heading for a fall.

MONEY – Thoughts for a Chancellor

The UK Chancellor of the Exchequer has just pronounced on the future of the country in times when the majority of the population find themselves in considerably strained financial circumstances . Perhaps a few thoughts occasioned by a reading which I quote from from: ‘The Funny Side – 101 Humorous Poems’ – edited with an introduction by Wendy Cope, will strike a chord with many of us . . .

It is from the American poet, Richard Willard Armour (July 15, 1906 – February 28, 1989)

That money talks

I won’t deny.

I heard it once,

It said, “Goodbye”.

Richard Armour also once wrote: . . . “Politics, it seems to me, for years, or all too long, has been concerned with right or left instead of right or wrong.

Bombs Away

Retro Advert seen in a charity shop in Devon, UK … Photo – WHB 2016

Bombs Away . . . Keeping our boys Regular

A provocative
narrative
Re a sanative
laxative.

As an ex-airman I can say

Advertising ‘Bombs Away’

Should not be a cause of laughter

I have heard of nothing dafter.

I consider it a waste,

Certainly leaves a nasty taste.

This advert I would call a fail,

In fact it is beyond the pale.

So airmen of the world unite,

Stop them talking utter tripe.

Dropping Bombs is not a joke,

Save it for that Hitler bloke.

He’s the one deserves derision,

Not our brave boys on a mission.

Nothing regular about a war,

Always ends with blood and gore.

So don’t make fun of our boys in blue,

Or the next one missing could be you.

CRICKET, Glorious Cricket

‘When Bat Meets Ball’ … WHB – April 2017

CRICKET, Glorious Cricket

In appreciation of cricket commentaries and commentators

If FOOTBALL is ‘THE BEAUTIFUL GAME’
Then I would have to say,
CRICKET is ‘THE GLORIOUS GAME’,
It betters it all the way.

Both have eleven in their team,
Both games are played with balls,
But there the similarity ends,
They’re not the same at all.

Although it is a game to watch
Cricket’s still a hit;
When listening to the radio
And those pundits spice it up a bit.

Yes, commentators do indulge,
Their language can sound silly,
For cricket lends itself to jest …
“The bowlers Holding, the batsman’s Willey”.

The comma after Holding,
That is the crucial bit.
Without it we would all be –
Well – Not something we permit.

Who ever heard a football pundit
Deliver such a joke?
Their chat is loud and full of ‘Gooooooal!”
Enough to cause a stroke.

As I listen to my radio,
When reporters break the rules,
In cricket commentaries
They do not talk like fools.

“He chanced his arm and it came off”
That is another beauty;
“The captain’s relieved himself at the Pavilion End”
There’s another, just a little fruity.

“Neil Harvey, he is fielding slip,
Waiting for a tickle, legs wide apart”,
Compared with such perceptive comments
Football has no counterpart.

“An interesting morning, full of interest”.
“Hutton ill … sorry, 111″
There’s two beauties, made to measure,
More like that and I’m in heaven.

So there you have it,
It’s my viewpoint.
These cricket commentators
May the gods anoint.

( With my apologies for some of my forced rhymes and unmetrical meters! )