Poems for Friday

Hello all,

It’s Friday, which means it’s the end of the working week! To celebrate, I’m going to be showing off some poems fresh off the press (some were literally finished this morning). Others were, like so many of my poems, written in a rough book which I take everywhere and subsequently forgotten about. I try to type them all up and keep them in the same folder, but sometimes I forget. Even when I do I can’t be sure I’ll remember to put them up here. So, I’ve reorganised the folder to see if there are any that slipped down the cracks, and the fruits of my labour are below.


In twenty years I know
that we’ll still be in touch,
and not just in a mutual Christmas card
or occasional e-mail way.

In twenty years I know
that we’ll be thick as thieves,
meeting for a wine and memory lane evening
or a quick catch up coffee.

In twenty years I know
that we’ll go to the theatre together,
meeting with a hug and a smile
and thinking “I love you, even after all this while”.

Storing Poetry

Storing poetry’s not easy,
I keep finding them everywhere.
Because sometimes I write one and leave it,
And then I forget that it’s there.

Shitty Ditty

In addition to more serious poems
I write the odd little ditty.
But I found that though the rhyme’s all right
The metre is utterly shitty.


A Poetic Response to Tumps by Wendy Cope

I hope I’m not one of Wendy’s tumps.
That would make me feel very sad.
It’s not that I’m not useless, because
Let’s face it – I am pretty bad.

And I’m definitely a poet:
Someone who creates things that rhyme.
But not just on special occasions
I’m doing it all of the time.

I can also confirm that I’m male.
At least, I was the last time I checked.
But I’m not proposing to prove it –
Just take it as read I’m correct.

I don’t have a problem with these things.
She can call me an ump any day.
It’s the ‘typically’ that I object to;
I’m useless in my own special way.

Reading a map’s not a problem,
And I’m fully licensed to drive.
And so long as I’ve got my fingers,
I can do enough sums to survive.

I’m punctual and smart and efficient
And not just at the bar.
I do like a drink (and who doesn’t?)
But I rarely take it too far.

It’s other things that make me useless:
I can’t play the drums, sculpt, or draw.
I’m utterly rubbish at skiing,
And in football – unable to score.

So let’s forget the ‘t’ at the beginning,
Although the change will be quite small.
We’ll make it a ‘u’ for ‘unusually’.
I’m not like the tumps. Not at all.

Drinking Problems

It isn’t right! It isn’t fair!
You drink much more than me I swear!
I drink five pints once a week
Not nightly bottles of Jacob’s Creek!

Whereas I’ll have cocoa before bed,
You’ll have a snifter or two instead!
You lecture me on how much I drink
As you slurp it down like a kitchen sink!

I have to abide by your injunctions
And yet your liver barely functions!
You tell me off for half a flagon
As, completely pissed, you fall off the wagon!

The War Graves

There is nothing so eerie as those cemeteries.
The blue sky vaulting them,
the bird song the only sound breaking the peace.

And stone on stone on stone.
A place where it’s impossible not to feel the dead around you,
to feel their sacrifice.

And so it should be, lest we forget.

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