This is the post excerpt.
This is my very first post. At this stage there is no plan. No structure. No idea where this is going! I am not a natural or gifted writer but for some reason I often get the urge to write. I’ve never shared any of it before but now, perhaps it is time!
a non starter
and better yet
a void bet
it gets harder
the going gets softer
and it so it gets harder
outnumber lucky winners
odds against, odds on
just for fun
until it’s not
a free bet that costs a lot
on the nose
I was an open book
you took one look and read something in me
for which i am forever grateful.
I’m just a wannabe has been
born too soon for fortune;
not good enough for fame.
did I choose the wrong direction
or was I chosen by the game
in the end I can’t defend the choices I made, the games I played,
now I’ve had a good hard look in the mirror
and I’ve had a word with myself
and the only decision I can come to
is it’s time to come down off the shelf
if my life changed tomorrow what would I do
“We need to do something about him.”
“He’s harmless, a touch supercilious maybe, but that’s his character. One day it will serve him and his country well.”
“Well I don’t like him, and he is affecting the other boys.”
Some teachers struggle to see the good in boys. Some teachers are right.
He waited by the headmaster’s office and pondered his future. A boy in a black shirt walked by many years ahead of his time. Georgian windows leaked wind and rain. Grammar turned Comprehensive and the trains stopped stopping because Mr Beeching had a better idea.
A horse drawn cart pulled up and a ginger haired man completed his delivery from the bakery. A bakery that caught fire and changed the town forever, except Freddie’s house. That survived and tells Tudor tales without trying too hard.
His father sent him to India.
The rest is history.
on scattered stones
with dust for bones
i look to find the words to say
how much you mean to me
and how i feel
when you are next to me
the metaphors and mystery
the painted lady history
what does it take for me to see
when you are next to me
i will embrace the swirling sea
or cross the sand with you to see
are next to me
scared of revealing
a me you don’t know
inside i am dreaming
of things I can’t show
I hear words I hear music
but they’re all in my head
and sometimes I confuse it
with phrases I’ve said
what’s the point of a walk in the wood
when you know its no good
you have one shot at life
let’s make sure to do it right
there’s a hole in my chest where my heart used to be
there’s a dream in my head that you’ve given to me
there’s a future together that we need to be
there’s a hand in my hand and you’re walking with me
you’re the whole of my heart you’re my destiny
you’re the dream that i have you’re my extacy
you’re the future together i need you to be
your hand in my hand you’re all that i need
moon beam dancing
in fancy places
loving the life the love the laugh
taking the time to turn the tap
of heartfelt emotion and life long dreams
battenburg cake and custard creams
Glamorous camping, wine induced sleep
campfire stories, songs make us weep
These are the times of our lives
memories made as we stare at the moon
This time will be the good old days soon
Late night reflections on a life defining moment
shakespearien wordsmiths and harmony spoken
my calvados glass is empty
but my wine glass had plenty
there’s a reason we medicate
there’s a reason we meditate.
it’s always been a tough life
but you just need a good wife
yes i said i do I do i do i do
I last saw Tom 3 months ago. He’d just turned 65 years old. His grey hair had thinned on top to reveal a pink patch like a chimps arse. His fringe was retreating from his rutted brow like an ebb tide. I considered that soon the tide would meet the arse and he would be officially bald, I told him so; he nearly laughed.
I was concerned about how he had deteriorated since we last met. A fondness for red wine and a habit for cigarettes contributed to badly discoloured teeth inside a wide mouth that seldom smiled. A winner on the horses would do it but, despite daily careful consideration of the Racing Post, that too seldom happened. A predilection for real ale was liable for the paunch overhanging the black leather belt. When removed, the belt retained the shape of the paunch in acclaim to the weight it supported in its daily work. Heavy pink jowls flopped from a once proud jaw line creating a frame from which hung a double chin. Everything rode on a thick neck and broad shoulders. Tom stood just over 5ft 8 inches tall. Before this recent illness he seemed taller.
We met at his pub on Strawberry Street. The Red Lion had been left behind in the rush of pubs turning to wine bars or restaurants. Everyone knew the money was in the food, but the Red Lion menu, hanging behind the bar on a nicotine coloured laminated card, only touted pork scratchings, nuts -salted or roasted, crisps or pickled eggs. Tom had been the landlord for fifteen years and the pickled egg jar could have been bought on his first day, there were three left. The polished mahogany coloured bar with brass foot rail had heard many tall tales and told none. At the back of the bar a shelf carried every edition of the good pub guide for the last 15 years. Tom was proud of his entry in the ‘ CAMRA Drinker’s Pub’ section, no children allowed. He was a miserable old sod, my brother, but he kept a good pint.
It was early evening and the pub was gloomy; a blessing as it prevented a good view of the maroon carpet. Inlaid red lions in a random pattern, jostled with cigarette burns, from an age when smoking inside was legal. You didn’t need good light to feel the carpet tugging at the soles of your shoes. He told me he was dying. Ironic that a smoking ban had killed his business, whilst smoking was killing him. His eyes were tired, resigned, no regrets and only enough energy for a little bitterness. Soon the brown framed Guinness adverts would be replaced by opinionated art, and the real ale guides by back lit vodka bottles on glass shelves. Shiny peanut bags on an exhausted blue cardboard sheet above the pallid till would be replaced by a white ceramic bowl on a stainless steel bar. The Red Lion’s soul would be buried with the landlord.
clocks not for stopping
hang on to each chime
best years were stolen
baby teenagers who flee
from the scene of the crime
through rose tinted lenses
laughing lost loved ones
imagine their voices
what would they be doing
if they hadn’t gone
dancing on tables
singing old songs
living not dying
being not lying
nobody is wrong