IS IT WORTH IT?

I came down early this morning ,

Fed the cats, made some coffee.

Sat down as i am now to write.

Hang on, the idea i had brought downstairs in my head 

from my dream had become more a memory,

than idea, more of a notion than plot.

I asked myself if this is all you’ve got

is it worth it?

You know the old silk purse from a sow’s ear,

the same old same old that they’ve all heard before,

trot it all out just like the lunchtime pub bore,

telling stories that the guy serving has sworn

that if he hears once more…

but well that’s what he gets paid for i suppose.

We all have our cross to bear and as burdens go,

it could be worse because that guy’s stories aren’t so bad

it’s repetition that drives him mad.

The tourists, for them it’s the first time of hearing and they enjoy them.

The guy can pace the stories while watching the contents of their glasses go down.

 So to hear the end they must buy another round.

Like me being sat here this morning, 

Trying to write my way to not buying,

Another round.

MAKE UP YOUR OWN MIND 

A ‘creative’ chap, a poet of course

described to me as being,

“what you see is what you get”

while his work had

“hidden depths” 

also apparently

“more than the eye could see”. 

When asked my honest opinion,

what ‘I really thought’.

I asked of which ,

what i got or what i couldn’t see.

Describing one’s work as having

‘hidden depth which the eye could not see ,

seemed to me to say to the reader’

that if you think it’s poor,

that’s down to you.

Sunday Stroll.

Waking on a Sunday feeling terribly alone, 

Feeling like i have slept far too deeply,

for far too long.

Friendly faces, voices looked and listened for

not seen not heard.

Sunday? everyday, oh my.

No it’s not for me , 

Angry voices from all quarters

Where once poetry soothed me, 

the reading of and the writing.

Now it’s shouting nonsensical instructions 

which have no structure or no purpose, 

but cannot be questioned without accusations .

Accusations of misdeeds which i don’t believe  exist,

i think perhaps it may have been,

a different point of view rather than what is on your screen. 

Each man had an opinion, not now it seems

Polemics thirty Summers old

telling me what to think, 

what to do.

I know what i think I’ll do today at least.

Feed the cats walk the dog, 

back to bed with a good book.

Keep an eye out for the  moon, 

hold fast, a week has past.

Monday cannot arrive too soon

SMALL TOWN

A lot to like about a small town,

Yes, a lot of things about living in one I like just fine.

Though it has to be said,

the odd problem crops up from time to time .

Lately, my writing has caused some upset,

I chewed the local council out for being shit at their job,

only to discover a newly elected member of the same

served in my local shop .

“Is your name Stephen Whitter” she asked,

‘Yes ‘ i replied, offering my hand,

” I thought as much” the hand declined.

Though this is a trifle, a mere bagatelle,

to the trouble i had in a small town forty years ago….

There had been a sudden rise in drug arrests and intoxication,

around the time I began inhabiting that town.

Then there was an unfortunate incident involving some gold,

It’s rightful owners were relieved of it, so legend goes.

Push came to shove and handcuffs,

Front page news and I was absent for a while.

On my return, i noticed a small crowd had gathered

outside the shop which i was within

getting things which of late i’d been doing without, 

tipped cigarettes, vodka and such.

as i left the shop the group,[ perhaps’ the crowd’ creates the wrong image] proceeded to follow me back to my house.

Some poor lad had died while i was inside,

blame it seemed was mine.

To be followed around your local small town,

being called ‘scum’ and told to ‘get out’ also the odd clout,

from an elderly woman paints rather the picture.

Which duly appeared in the local paper,

By which time i was elsewhere, somewhere larger

where one could disappear.

Forty years on and tales it seems do get passed on.

Mother to daughter, to son and so on.

There is much to like about living in a small town,

albeit problems crop up now and again.