Five AM

I own this hour of each day,
(part of my family is settled above),
and I tap-tap away,
in the kitchen’s dumb-hum.

No pant and pad of dog,
no mis-tuned song,
this busy home in a sleep.

With early ticks,
the glassed darkness,
leaves the weather outside,

I am alone,
circling the earth,
it seems,
taking an astronaut’s ride.

Double Trouble

Yellow paint
in paralleled-pairs,
the parking lines
will appear;

all being ‘good’,
bad-parked are slapped,
with a fat fine –
tickets wrapped.

The new parking zone
will span Uck to Ouse,
privatised wardens,
in uniformed blues:

Pacing side streets,
in ‘bounty-hunt’ mode,
leaping on the parked:
‘I stopped to unload!’

Our future is fine,
thirty days to pay up,
but don’t park in Uckfield,
it has just been shut.

Once a Month

A blue moon: I won’t rise
From my unsettled-bed:
This Parkinson’s ‘thing’ on me,
Wishing me dead.

The rest of the month,
Each morning is cracked,
By my working ethic.
I could be ‘sacked’.

But I create alone,
In a stove-stoked shed:
Drawing the world,
Out of my head.

The Parkinson’s ‘thing’,
Lifts in these times:
So I submit more
To long-designed lines.

New Tricks

The new Uckfield car park, laid out carefully,
with too many spaces, commuter-empty,

A groovy idea: car-less spaces become,
a grey-surfers’ skate park for some OAP fun!

Beige-age skaters would form an orderly queue
lined up, loose-limbed, to go skateboarding anew,

each of them hard-helmeted, and elbow-strapped,
they would say: ‘It’s way cool’, then sneek a cat-nap.

On waking, a leisurely pre-skate tea break,
then rolled oldies mount boards, and partake;

a no-brainer for sure: the benefits are many,
and our cash-strapped council don’t spend a penny:

Lined up along the fence (after too much tea),
they add car park odours: emergency-wees.

The council, please, agree to skate parks for all,
It’ll encourage the beige-aged to stay way cool.

Cartoonists 1 – Poets 0

Poets sits stiffly along the backbench,
Sniffing the cartoonists’ pen-and-ink stench:
(They who complain in quick composition,
Sitting in permanent opposition).

The cartoonists will vote, no scan-tripped whip,
No party lies, or correct-politics,
(My own caricatures, and sketchy past,
Never got close to Mr. Steve Bell’s blast).

Now my rhyme-voice tries to draw out a line,
Which if pitched too loudly sounds like a whine.
The drawn-cast satire: single-frame cartoons,
I fish daily, with my lines of lampoons.

Two Princes

Saudis are now
a ‘priority market’,
For our bowed state,
that’ll ne’er complain of it:
al-Nimr… al-Marhoon..
boys in their teens,
Arrested, now bowed,
to the Saudi regime.

A bloody beheading,
as we mete our trade,
Our blindfolds won’t blunt
the sterling-silver blade.
Thirty-six percent
of Saudi shopping for war,
Is supplied by our country:
this oiled-up whore.

Papered Cracks

The truth is unwritten,
Fleet-leaked no more,
paper-faced liars
print facts we adore:

Celebrity shame,
to ministered-spin,
the people in charge
are the ones who’ll win.

So we roll over again,
to claim a jackpot,
no fair-share of prizes
will be our lot.

The rich earn the most,
with state benefits,
theirs the return
of less-taxing remits.

The fire stations burn,
no libraries renew,
the NHS bled dry,
sold to a few.

Today’s papers feed
our subjugation,
this land will become
yesterday’s nation.

Fish-wrapped, on Friday,
in previous news,
this is Fleet Street
editing our views.

A Path in Israel

It was a path from another time,
your enquiry made of an ant-marched line.
Crossing the equally-engineered trails,
we both avoided the unearthed rails.

You, eldest boy, chatting alongside,
on the rough-route, where Ruti had cried.
Your uncle asleep in this blown-thin soil.
Alone in this god-land, an empty black voile.

The gate sounded out metallic complaints,
I showed you the place where your uncle waits.
Our talk is subdued by the hand-carved curves,
our name cries out over foreign words.

Written On Sunday

We will now stand scared,
because of you:
Cursing Europe’s
unlocked sea-view.

You crossed ‘our’ sea
in hull-huddled fear,
life-jacket-strapped
by a profiteer.

Twenty-hours out,
and vomit was rife,
you prayed this ended
with a better life.

There is no god,
of any one faith,
who guided your craft,
to any one place.

Your loved son was drowned,
soft-washed ashore,
his body stiff,
he travels no more.

When we look to blame,
for these boat-choked seas,
it’s we who create
your miseries.

Night Rain

The summer showers,
(dried peas on the roof),
woke me to pre-dawn light.
A visit to the loo:
I piss sitting down,
my aim less true,
and my dick drips like the gutters.

Minutes before my hands rattled
On me.
Waking me.
This creeping disease plots disturbance,
A vile seep.
You turn with my disturbances.
Our wide bed offers little comfort
From thought, fear and this storm.

This Day

This day is unsteady,
an earthquake,
instead of a tremor,
as I am walked
by the all-pull-dog
across the park,
becoming more of a drag
behind her.

Heel scuffs, mine, on tarmac,
her strangled collared-coughs
announce our parade:
Coming to town is
the flat-footed quivering clown
and his comedy dog.

A smile from a child,
delighted by the sight
of such a performance:
My dog tugs at the lead
and I am walked.