Category Archives: pen

Writing a Song


A couple of times
He couldn’t make it rhyme
So he boogied the riff
And paused – to flick his quiff

He couldn’t make it work
So considered himself ‘a jerk’
‘Call yourself a musician?’
He mused – in recognition
Of his bad hair day
And his condition – of dismay

He thought: ‘I will try later’
Sliding from his chair like an alligator
No sooner away from the deck
and the thoughts came flooding back

Try it this way – try it that
‘C’mon man – is this all you’ve got?’
Suddenly it came to mind
As he set himself to unwind:
‘I will write the song as though
I can never have another go’

And rising to his own challenge
He at last found he could manage
A song – simple but true
It came out ‘riffy’ and blue

He smiled and marvelled at
The difference the heart’s new format
– Could make – when it came to lyrics of poetry or prose
Now – written without difficulty – I suppose?




I remember…

I remember

I remember…
The whitewash on the yard walls
The transformation when renewed

I remember…
the long wooden trays of
the baker –
in a van
calling at doors

The array of breads – biscuits – cakes
each allocated it’s partition.
Each breathtakingly sealed on
a young mind

I remember…
the semi-circular
pristineness of mum’s
scrubbing of the street
outside the door

I remember…
dad’s froth covered face
and ski-slope tracks made in
it’s shaven snow.

I remember…
dad – shoulders back –
chest out – muscles flexed as he
punched the wall in jest –
to impress his young son

Impressed he was –
and so was the wall

I remember…
the parlour.
The parlour.
For so it was named

I remember…
the cavaliers and
the roundheads
(a patient, loving mum
with son
obtained – in shop ‘umpteenth’
their long slog
the full length of the road)
put away for Christmas day

I remember…
a tender-hearted mother
who put her two children first,
always first.

I remember…
as millions have remembered
As mankind remembers
As mankind is made
to have memory
I remember..

But I also forget…
I forget what memory fails
to revisit
The engine won’t start
No matter how hard I try

We all would revisit
good times/
good things/
good happenings –

meaningful things
frivolous things

Our first-ever this…
our first-ever that…

Off we went without a care
until dished-out treatment
(kids can be so cruel)
stopped us in our
joyous tracks

I remember…
bully boys
and my chivalrous stand
the marks of the one-sided
battle I physically endured

I remember…
great nights of play
continuity from that of the day
Football played by ear
as the day’s light
did disappear

I remember…
a childhood crush
All in the mind

Emotion only
allowed to touch

I remember…


[I break into this trip…]

‘This can’t be me’ I quip
to myself
as I write this
‘I remember’… riff

For I will stop here –
no more visiting
nostalgia –
the bygones

ropes and hooks
on the past
dragged back
into memories
present span

I will no longer challenge
to indulge or disagree
ridicule or stare incredulously

This is out of fashion
to talk so
You are showing your age

McCartney and his
‘silly love songs’
comes to mind

But no one will blemish
my preciousness
with insensitive
I am no pearl and
you are no swine.













5 Kroner’
With a hole in the middle
What to make of this?

Found on the street
It fell on a downward spiral
Into the deepness of my pocket –

Living on the street up to now
Now I imprison it
in the dark recesses of linen.

The hand went deep to
retrieve it
on returning home

Examination ensued
I’m told –
don’t necessarily
collect coins…

Catalogue: –
Worth anything?
This Danmark Kroner?

Very little.
So back into the pocket you shall go

Why have you come into my life?
You only pose questions.

And the hole in the middle?
Hi Diddle Diddle
(there’s a hole in the middle)
the cat and the Fiddle…
Cows jumping over moons –
I mean…come on?
Dogs laughing?

Dishes and spoons animated?
Running away with each other?

No – just a hole in the middle
Hang it around your neck –
liberating it from the cell
of your garment and once again
into the light of day,
no longer
to return/remain
on street
at feet
amidst the dirt and grime
but rather
exalted and exultant in
full majestic view,
joined to a handsome chain of gold enthroned on the neck
for all curious glances
made a fuss over
as the story unfolds:
‘I found it on the street…’

No longer homeless – adopted – a permanent child with a father…

Kroners with holes
I at last have seen and obtained
LG 1995 Jp with hearts and crowns

Worth little
for exposure and PR.

If only holes could speak.
If only Kroners could smile.

And yet I can sense it’s satisfaction
See it’s silver glint
All washed up – on display
an all-washed-up existence.

“Oh Kroner attached to my person swinging on a permanent swing of gold.

I know little of your life or background – I have never been to your birthplace.

But you will remain my friend, my companion, my little muse.

I might even grow fond of you”.

Dog driving



There is a dog’s head floating in my rear-view mirror
Musn’t get distracted while driving
But look again – how can an animated dog’s portrait
Find it’s way like a floating balloon?
I adjust at the traffic lights and stare more fully
Into the mirror
And then I see it is the glass in the car behind
that adds the transparent sun-kissed mirage-illusion of the body-less hound
It’s head actually stuck through the half lowered window
I try to see if there is a dog driving, according to these sun-staccato’d windows of deception.