Category Archives: poems for adults

you know the kind of thing

There is a place

This is a poem of pain and hope for the heavy-hearted …

There is a place
where the wind
will not go.
A space
where the gale
will not blow.
And the hurricane
curls up like a ball
and hides.

There is a time
which the dread
cannot invade.
A moment
where you
need not be afraid.
Where terror
sucks its thumb
and rocks.

There is a gaze
which you can
never escape.
A drive where
your life is
on tape.
A love that
cradles the pain
and heals.

Seek it.

14 January 2010

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A bit of a slip

After a nightmare weekend of snow and ice, following more than 120 people admitted to A&E in Worthing after falling on ungritted pavements, this poem is dedicated to the local council – who fell flat on their faces ….

Slip sliding away
sang Paul Simon
Who was not, as it happens,
talking about snow
and ice and slush
and how local councils
take our money
and then don’t grit
the pavements.

He was, however,
lyrical and precise
and harmonious
like weather that chimes
so much with the
season it seems
custom designed.

Skating away
on the thin ice of a new day
sang Jethro Tull,
although as Ian Anderson
said from the stage
recently
the lyric has turned out
in retrospect
to be complete cobblers

Based as it was on the
theory that we were about
to enter the next ice age.
Mind you, if local councils
believed that
we might at least
get enough grit
to stay upright.
And certain councillors
would be worth
their salt.

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I thought I was going to explode

As the small child with eyes wide saw the presents awaiting
I thought I was going to explode

As the magi with star sat-nav seeking a king
I thought I was going to explode

As department store Santa all vetted and padded
I thought I was going to explode

As a girl giving birth to the fulcrum of history
I thought I was going to explode

As the glutton with a feast stuffed in my quivering belly
I thought I was going to explode

As a shepherd with angels trumpeting across the sky
I thought I was going to explode

As the muzak jingles on and strips out all the meaning
I thought I was going to explode

On patrol in Helmand province one step from a bomber
I’m just hoping to be home for Christmas

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Festive

This has been written for the Christmas poetry gathering at Worthing Library on Friday 11 December 12 noon …

Festive
Festive digestive
A biscuit with a seasonal theme
An olfactory Pandora’s box
A sweet-toothed boy’s dream …
… but not a custard cream

Festive
Festive yet overly suggestive
The cheap and tacky Christmas card
That tries to be funny but tries too hard
Words certainly not penned by a bard
(the exclamation mark is a hint – you’re meant to laugh at this bit …)
Don’t give it to auntie, you’ll leave her scarred

Festive
Festive but … arrested
The office party dressed as Santa’s elf
The seasonal pub crawl arranged by stealth
‘Go on – it’s Christmas!’ ‘ But it’s bad for me health …’
Honest officer, I didn’t think it would break …
Now I didn’t think celebrations would cripple me wealth

Festive
Festivity nativity
The biggest star in the universe
For the biggest birth in the universe
The celebrations go on for weeks
But the birthday boy often gets forgotten

So here it is merry Christmas everybody’s havin’ fun
‘Doctor, I’m suffering from overload on an empty commercial beanfeast
that seems to have forgotten what it’s for’
‘A simple diagnosis – you’re suffering from tinselitis’

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Live poetry set at The Upmarket, Worthing 29/11/09

Featuring a lot of recent poems from this blog, this was recorded for the legendary Vobes podcast, presented by Richard Vobes, usually from his Worthing beach hut, but this time as part of Empty Shops Radio …esr-russ-live

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Rusty spade

It’s National Poetry Day
And I have not, so far, written anything poetic.

However
Maybe I have said something of a poetic nature
to someone.

Thinking about it, I’d consider that unlikely.

It’s possible there might have been
an action
a glance
or a thought
that might be considered
in some way lyrical.

To be honest, it’s not been that poetic a day.

But it’s National Poetry Day,
so I’m writing this.

Which may not be much compensation
for today’s poetic vacuum.

But it’s the best I can come up with.

Some days words are your paint
your instrument
and the love of the universe coiled in sound.

Other days, they’re a heavy, slightly rusty spade
that doesn’t really do the job.

This was one of those days.
Hey-ho.

8 October 2009

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Stop w(h)ining …

It’s communion, Jim, but not as we know it
The bread is still there but the wine has now gone
Official instructions are rather hotchpotch
The wine’s for the vicar, and we get to watch

While we worship the Lord with hymns loud and anthemic
The bishops are worried we’re spreading pandemic
We don’t all want swine flu, it’s a pig of a bug
So don’t you dare kiss in the Peace, or go hug
Handshakes are dangerous, so make do with a shrug

Never mind that the Bibles are passed hand to hand
Why the chairs haven’t been swabbed, I don’t understand
And then there’s the newssheets and door handles too
All viable ways to share in the flu

If it gets too much worse they may make us stay home
And watch Songs of Praise till we’re blue in the face
So let’s give them one big liturgical groan
We’ve had it with law so let’s hear it for grace

Next we’ll have Britain’s Got Swine Flu
with Cat Deeley
Maybe it’s just a plot to stop church
getting too touchy feely

August 2009

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