Two's A Crowd

While "three's a crowd", is often heard,
a crowd of two seems quite absurd
and in a house that's built for four,
two people should have room - and more!

To stand in line to clean their teeth
is fantasy beyond belief,
and the question of congestion
is indeed a vexing question,
but traffic lights along the hall
doesn't answer it at all.

You'd think two people wouldn't race
to use the same two feet of space,
that two would never need to queue
to go through doors or use the loo,
but we two do.

The Fly And I

I sometimes take an inward glance
and ponder on the fickle chance
that made this living being me,
and not a pig, a goat or flea.
Could well have been a browsing cow
with little thought beyond what's now,
it's future ready carved in steaks
for hungry diner's dinner plates.

How glad I am that I am I,
and not some grubby household fly,
whose thoughts of wholesome gastric treats
are tit-bits from the refuse heaps,
doomed perhaps to end its days
choked to death by toxic sprays.
I'd really hate to end it all
squashed flat on someone's kitchen wall.

The Ball

Have you ever paused to contemplate
Just why the ill-used ball,
Seems subject to such scorn and hate
And gets no love at all.
We kick and throw it,
Bat and blow it,
Poke at it with sticks.
Toss and trounce it,
Bowl and bounce it,
And thump it near to bits.
It doesn't really follow,
Nor is it really fair,
A ball should have such sorrow
Because it's not a square.
Next time you take a football
And kick it from the ground,
Remember it's no fun at all
To be a ball and round.

A Fundamental Lament

When I was younger, in my teens,
('round eighteen and a bit)
and long before we all wore jeans,
my pants would never fit.

My Uncle Tom with flippant tongue,
said, "Lad, yer've got no butt,
nought at all to hang 'em on,
them trousers won't stay up."

I felt downright inferior
because I only had,
a miniscule posterior
unfit for any lad.

My pant seats hung in bumless shape
and girls would look askance,
were I to ask them for a date
in unfilled baggy pants.

I'd glance at some young macho guy
with pant seat amply packed,
and covet with an envious eye
a backside that I lacked.

Now, I've a rump that's mildly plump
since eighty years have passed,
and to be blunt, I'm still no spunk
and can't be called well assed.

And now it seems the baggy shape
is the modern dresser's passion,
so for a spate, my rearless state
is very much in fashion.

Writer's Block

My head is empty, vague and numb,
And inspiration fails to come.
Mind whirls around and I can't stop it,
I fear the worst, I think I've got it.

I've jotted down on bits of paper,
Scraps of poems to finish later.
When later comes it seems I never,
Ever get those scraps together.

I could perhaps string words in line,
Meterless, and without rhyme.
Nothing fitting, of no worth
And call the things, 'Old John's Free Verse'.

I wonder if old William S.
Sometimes got in selfsame mess.
And when his meter wouldn't fit
Said unpoetic things like ---t.

I bet there was a time or two,
The mediaeval air turned blue,
As he said a naughty word
When he thought he was unheard.

But please excuse me, I digress,
'Tis I who's in this wordless mess.
I'd best press on with thought and text,
OH DAMN! - I wonder what comes next.

A Screw Loose

Good sense is governed so it's said,
In how the Lord screws on ones head.
When mine was due to be assembled,
Maybe the good Lords hands had trembled.

Although I'd thought that it was tight,
Some say it isn't screwed on right
Or why would I be wasting time
On nonsense verse and dubious rhyme?

I do not think my ancient head
Has either left or right hand thread,
Perhaps in haste then He made do ,
With just a single woodwork screw
And after years of constant use,
My screw has finally come loose.

An Absent-Minded Gremlin?

A gremlin haunts our humble home,
A grey-haired ancient sprite,
In slippered feet he comes to roam
The house by day and night.

'Twas he who took the spec's I wore
From off my very nose,
And hid the things inside the drawer
Where mostly no one goes.

He'll use the room Yanks call a 'john',
(Old gremlins pee a lot),
And though he leaves the light switched on
He'll still mis-aim his shot.

He'll take todays new newspapers,
And use to start the fire,
Such absent-minded capers
Arouses my wife's ire.

In fact she says she's seen him
And swears that he could be,
With baggy pants and double chin
A replica of me.

She says if she can catch him,
She'll have his guts for luncheon.
I'm glad I'm not that gremlin,
Whose guts are due for munchin'.

Antiquity Blues

I get up in the morning and greet it with a sigh,
Shuffle from the bedroom with hair and brain awry,
Totter to the bathroom with sorta knock-kneed gait
To beat an urgent urging, that does not want to wait.

Today I'll write some verse I think
Pick up the pen and spread the ink.

The toaster in the kitchen, has features new galore,
It burns my bread, then pops it up and flings it on the floor.
The lurking ants are waiting as they do most every day,
Big and stout, they scuttle out and whisk my toast away.

If I have time I'll write a rhyme
On ants that steal that toast of mine.

The dream I dreamt last night still rankles
My PJ's slip down to my ankles,
I stoop to grab, and stub a toe
So say some naughty words I know.

The telephone begins to ring,
The toaster has another fling,
The ants are back, I'll never eat,
I might as well go back and sleep.

I'll close my eyes in sleep and sorrow,
And maybe write some verse tomorrow.

Talk Of The Devil

In 'Deaths' today I saw my name,
"Can't be" I thought, and looked again,
Yet there it was as plain as plain,
In black and white it said the same.

"But no!" said I, "this cannot be
For here I am for all to see,
It must be someone else not me,
A case of wrong identity."

Rang a number, crossly said,
"How dare you tell the world I'm dead,
That this living life I've fled,
You surely must be off your head."

The gleeful voice that answered back,
Said, "Yeah man, yeah, - they all say that,
Believe it man, you've hung your hat,
You kicked the bucket two hours back."

"You've dialed Limbo triple 0,
Press 1 for yes or 2 for no,
The choice of where you wanna go,
Is wings above or fire below."

"But be aware, I gotta say
It makes no difference either way,
Your future's looking grim and gray,
It's roast and toast for you this day."

The roar of flames, the smell of soot?
The stamping of a cloven foot?
Must I drink this bitter cup?
"Like Hell!" I said, as I woke up.

Contemplating My Navel

Here I sit with glass in hand
To contemplate my navel,
And dream of all those earlier years
When I was fit and able.

Aging is a cruel cross
Which each of us must bear,
The early loss of youthful gloss,
The passing wear and tear.

But yet to me life has been kind
To this I must admit.
The family joys, my girls and boys,
I've loved each day of it.

And should there be another chance
Of life once more, well then,
I'll grab that chance, with both my hands
And live it all again.