The breakfast life


She thinks the English breakfast is a curse
The boiled egg or kipper – which is worse?
The one set in its ways the other set
On being plated by the common folk
But kipper wants egg’s influence and wealth
And won’t be happy ’til egg’s off the shelf
And as for egg, it’s lost too many men
To shell, and cuts, neglected used-by-dates
The Continental flits and flirts on tongues
Convenes and orders jam pots by the knife
While egg and kipper stay at home and fight
The Continental lives the breakfast life.

Picture featured in this post is Kippers for breakfast. Author –Kai Hendry, Source – Flickr, License –Attribution 2.0 Generic

The vice and crimes of Edith Humbleworth



No vices but thrombosis pills and gin
The Tupperware she kept her false teeth in
And vouchers that she scrimped and scraped to save
From the women’s magazines her daughter gave

The scratch cards filling up the rubbish bin
The never managing a single win
The working men’s club and the working men
Her driving though she never passed her test

The crunching thud against the Volvo’s top
That nice man on the telly all tied up
The gag she made from fading TV Times
And the memoir she is writing of her crimes.


Picture featured in this post is old_woman_glasses004. Author – Joe Duty, Source – Flickr, License –Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic

Brothers and sisters


As the Samson cut-out
Splits from Delilah
We sprang in on the school

My sister and I
Like gangbusters
A group of youngsters

Peered at us
In the sun
Of a dusty Methodist hall

“Sorry, out shopping”
Not thinking
It was a sin

On the Sabbath
We were
Split up

She chose Luke
and Matthew
I chose John

Olivia Newton-John

My son’s a cudgel



My son’s a cudgel I’ll be bludgeoned with
my one soft spot, a tender spot to split
a line whose origin they’ll find in me.

Forgetting all the times I passed them by
as they consoled a screaming, bawling child,
absurd opinions aired in private chat,

I want to tell them where to shove their words
it’s not like baby knows all he has heard
how I’m the fallen man, my pride the fruit.

Yet striking back, at once, I am bereft
and all my words have mutinied and fled
their origin, the father, son in him.

Picture featured in this post is Nexus 8. Author – Álvaro Canivell, Source – Flickr, License – Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic


Our friendship is more compromise than truth
If you don’t say it, I don’t want to ask
And if I press it, you will hit right back
What does it matter? Who are you to judge?

Your size 10 on my hand don’t feel so bad
And half my freezer was all mine to give
The trees don’t mourn the loss of autumn’s leaves
And like the leaves, my money you’ll give back

Like who am I to understand your plans?
It’s not like I’m as gifted as you are
I work backstage so you can play the star
Your size 10 on my hand is just your way

Our friendship is like ice and it will melt
If you don’t end it, I will break it down
And if you mourn it, who am I to say
what does it matter? What remains that’s felt?

The open secret


His props: the tracksuit and the silver hair
those chunky gold chains and cigar in hand

We never knew him, though he was well-known
Iconic, humoured like the River Thames

This TV uncle with an undertow
A hedonist who pawed, and groped, and raped

In hospitals, on cruises, in care homes

An alibi of causes he ran for
An oddball floating safe in rumor’s tide

Who died a knight, until the water dropped
Revealing reeds, an empty mould-green cot.