My Mum is a SuperHero of her very own making;
she didn’t need a Spider-bite,
she isn’t scared of Kryptonite,
and I know you might
not see her fight
in pants on top of
skin-tight tights,
but that’s because she uses her great power
with even greater responsibility.
John Hegley said “they say
problems shared
are problems halved
but they don’t say it to me,
because revealing
how I’m feeling,
it isn’t my Darjeeling”
And sometimes I agree
that talking about me
isn’t my cup of tea.
Saying what’s wrong
isn’t my Lapsang Souchong.
And making me say
what ruined my day
isn’t my Earl Grey.
So instead of outlining what my mind won’t settle on
let’s have a Hobnob and stick the kettle on.
It is evening in the library;
such a peaceful place to be.
I feel my belly rumbling and
decide it’s time for tea.
A short walk to the cafe with
the coins clutched in my hand.
I grab a sandwich, bag of crisps,
return to LibraryLand.
The sandwich goes down smoothly;
not a sound from bread and cheese,
but the crisps are loud as fireworks
and can’t be swallowed whole with ease.
I see the students staring
at the source of such a racket.
They tut that certain libary-tut
when they see me with crisp packet.
So here’s my final question:
is it me that’s being rude?
Or is the cafe wrong for selling such
unlibrary-friendly food?
Said the man to his wife, “If it is I who dies first,
love and live on without me – make the best of the worst”.
Said the wife to the man, “Don’t worry, my dear.
I’ve had my eye on the postman for almost a year”.
D-Day, 6:30am, 6th June 1944.
It was horrible.
There were bodies in the water,
there were bodies on the beaches.
They were showered in bullets.
It felt like we lost millions,
and at breakfast time
everywhere we stood
was blood.
I lost my friends,
I lost my faith,
I lost myself.
They say we won,
but most of us don’t feel that way.
V-Day, 3:30pm, 14th February 2012.
It was horrible.
There were couples in the street,
there were couples in the shops.
They were showered in kisses.
It felt like we’d spent millions,
and at dinner time
everywhere we looked
was booked.
I lost my friends,
I lost my money,
I lost my dignity.
They say it’s good,
but most of us don’t feel that way.
For Valentine’s Day I dressed up as Cupid.
It was cold, I was naked; I felt pretty stupid.
The heart that I got in the post from a friend
I used to cover my manhood and now it’s THE END.
Dear 6-year-old girl in my class,
We have only been in education
for two years.
We have not covered the romantic poets,
we have not heard songs about love
(unless you count ‘Wannabe’ by the Spice Girls),
we have no experience of love,
we don’t even know where babies come from.
So don’t blame me
or my vocabulary
or my £1.50
pocket money
if instead of a dozen roses,
a long, lovey-dovey poem,
a box of chocolates,
a weekend trip to Paris
and some lingerie,
I just give you a slightly softer kick
on the shins
than I usually do
before running away.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
For Valentine’s Day,
I got my other half
some sexy lingerie.
He looked mortified.
Plato said
“at the touch of love,
everyone becomes a poet”.
But looking back at the rubbish I’ve written
I am no William Wordsworth.
In fact,
I’ll tell you what my word’sworth.
Nothing.
Our Postman
gets a ridiculous amount
of Valentine’s Day cards.
Sadly,
mainly
only
to pass them on,
hopefully,
largely
to me.
consciencenonsense 