Poem of the week

Poetry Workshops for kids

Poetry Workshops for adults

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Verses, rhymes and chants for children to read, learn and perform - individually or as a class.

Children's poetry

A selection of poems written by children during poetry workshops

John Fewings on youtube

Hull Truck Studio Theatre

(July 2010)

A selection of poems from previous weeks.

Averse 2 Verse CD

Twists & Turns

SEX, DEATH AND CHOCOLATE

Modestly, we meet

Primly pecking cheek to cheek

Decorously greeted

Sedately, we are seated

Knowingly we choose

From matching, padded menus

Furrowed brow, thoughtful face

“Such a charming eating place”

Religiously, we break bread rolls

Share our thoughts but guard our souls

Pick at olives, sip at bisque

Coyly, shyly, take no risk

Demurely, we dine

Passing comments on the wine

Cautiously, we air our views

On this and that and local news

Delightedly, the meal we praise

Sirloin steak and sauce Béarnaise

We talk of cooking meals for one

We both agree it’s little fun

We ponder the desserts and catch each other’s eyes

Profiteroles or drizzle cake or Summer fruit surprise?

Or maybe this or maybe that?

“Oh no, I would get far too fat!”

Teasingly, I tap your nose

Suggest we order two of those

Tension mounts as we await

Arrival of our pudding plate

Cocoa-dusted, rich, dark, ice-cream; mousse and fudge and sauce

Covering a brownie mound - and choccy cake of course

Indulgently, we cast ourselves into “Chocolate death”

Succulently savouring, catching at our breath

Sated with the chocolate yet randy with desire 

Heavily, we breathe our lust, the flame is burning higher

You tease with chocolate buttons ‘til I can stand no more

Flowers, candles, knives and spoons all clatter to the floor

We rollick on the table, ripping off our clothes

The blonde who sits across the way says, “I’ll have one of those!”

A matron tuts, her partner tries in vain to hide a laugh

Around our tangled limbs the waiter deftly weaves a path

We revel in the richness of our chocolate-induced passion

Rampant in obsession (we know it’s not the fashion)

‘Til finally, our fervour spent, we lay there, heavy-breathing

A fork pricks at my buttocks and I think we should be leaving

We gather up our things and dress

Survey the sorry, fudge-y mess

With eyes cast down, you bite your lip

I pay the bill with generous tip

You catch my eye and glance away

I’m not sure what I’m meant to say

And then I see the twinkle that seals our choco-fate

And we book another table for tomorrow night at eight.

John Fewings

ELEVEN O’CLOCK FOX

11 o’clock fox

Tripped across the light-stained tarmac

Eyed me up with nonchalance

With left paw paused mid-air

Derogatory sniff

Detected after-shave, a glass of red

The heavy pall of diesel fumes

A light dash of adrenaline

Cocky tilt of head

Dared me to contest

Who had the right to be there

Then shadow-flitted through the fence

Along the sleepy track

Thursday’s final train

Chuntered on the crossing

As it laboured back to Hull

Passengers oblivious

Did not peer or strain

To see him dance along the sleepers

Careless of their late commotion

I clutched my bottled prize

And my folder full of poems

Silently I barked, “Goodnight!”

And wished the raider well

From yellow pool to yellow pool

I headed homeward light of step

Privileged to share the night

With 11 o’clock fox

John Fewings

SECOND-HAND SANDWICHES

(No such thing as a free lunch?)

Second-hand sandwiches,

Left over from the buffet.

“You can take them home,”

Said the boss, a generous soul.

But all we got was curly bread

And pickle-soggy spam ones,

Whereas he took home the Scotch eggs

And a dozen sausage rolls.

Second-hand sandwiches,

Inherited from three-year-old.

“You can have them now,”

He said, “’cos I’m full up inside.”

The cheese he’d liked, the ham he’d liked

And the peanut butter,

So I was left with just plain bread

And nothing more beside.

Second-hand sandwiches,

Taking turns to nibble.

“You’ve forgotten lunch,” she said

“So you can share with me.”

To thank her for her kindness

I took her out for dinner -

That’s how I met my other half

… And I got my lunch for free!

John Fewings

YOU’RE NICKED

 They were lurking around in the Poundshop, Guv,

Disguised as a couple of vicars

But they were stealing ladies’ underwear -

A pair of nicker knicker nickers!

John Fewings

DATED

Excuse me, I’ve brought these roses back -

They’re past their smell-by date.

And this bag of mussels in white wine sauce -

They’ve passed their shell-by date.

This book of stories about the Mister Men

Has passed its tell-by date.

This plastic Harry Potter wand

Has passed its spell-by date.

And these slug pellets really are rubbish -

They’ve passed their repel-by date

And as for this laxative chocolate -

It’s past its expel-by date.

These tablets don’t seem to be working -

I’m well past my well-by date.

And do you sell Viagra?

I’m past my swell-by date.

John Fewings

BLINDED BY THE LIGHT

I think you’ll find

On the planet of the blind

The one-eyed man is not king

But ridiculed and tortured

Vilified and spat upon

His revealing orb

Gouged from its socket

So that all men may be equal

“It’s not p.c. to see”

John Fewings

POWER

I work for Superman Comics -

I’m a trainee illustrator.

I’m not allowed to draw characters yet -

I suppose that all comes later.

I long to draw heroes with rippling pecs.

I long to draw heroines dripping with sex.

I long to draw villains with dark, hooded eyes

Roaming the streets in their evil disguise.

Next week I might do cityscapes;

Rooftops, spires and flats.

For now I have to practice

Doing “BAM!”s and “BIFF!”s and “SPLAT!”s

I don’t expect to do it all at once -

I’ve only been here an hour.

I might do a “CRUNCH!” just after lunch -

But for now, I’m just a “POW!”-er

John Fewings

MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB

Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow

And everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to go.

Throughout her life it dogged her steps, that lamb it was a pain;

It followed her each day to school and followed her home again.

It followed her to the bedroom, it followed her to the loo.

She wrapped its eyes in tissue so it couldn’t watch her poo.

It even followed her into the shower (an over-the-bath-type doofer)

Though it did have its advantages: she used it instead of a loofah!

It followed her to the Youth Club where she soon lost all her mates.

She never had a boyfriend because it followed her on dates.

It followed her when she went to work, it followed her on vacation.

She hadn’t a clue why it did it.  There was no explanation.

She consulted a psychotherapist.  He said, “I don’t understand fully.

“I know about Pavlov’s dogs and such but not about anything woolly.”

He said, “I feel a bit sheepish.  I can’t offer the poor thing healing.”

Mary exploded! “Sheepish!” she said, “How do you think I’m feeling?”

“But let’s look on the bright side – I suppose I’m benefiting;

“I’ve no mates, no bloke, no job, no life – but I’m blooming good at knitting!”

So she set herself up in business; took over the Woolies brand

Manufactured everything knitted, the best in all the land.

She dominated in jumpers, she cornered the market in cardies.

Soon she became the talk of the town; got invited to all the best parties.

And trotting along behind Mary (begowned in her little black dress)

Came her trusty, ovine friend of old, the secret of her success.

Mary won the Queen’s Award – it was enough to make her weep.

The Queen met Mary at the Palace gates; her corgis greeted the sheep.

“Ooh look,” said the Queen to Mary, “Our pets are getting frisky.”

Mary smiled politely – though she knew in her mind it was risky.

Her sheep, you see, had a dodgy heart from having lived so long

But there wasn’t a thing that Mary could do – she had to wait round for her gong.

So all day long at the Palace the creature did gambol and frolic and leap

But Mary could tell it was not very well – it truly was a sick sheep

But there with the corgis on Buck Palace lawn she decided to let her sheep play.

“This is its finest hour,” she thought, “Every sheep must have its day.”

As they drove away from the Palace that night in the taxi that Mary had hired,

The sheep gave a start, clutched at its heart, gave one last bleat and expired.

Finally free of her woolly-fleeced pet, Mary mourned and grieved of course.

But she saved a packet on funeral costs – she just bought a jar of mint sauce!

John Fewings

SHOPGIRL

If you served in a sweetshop I’d come in for goodies,

Hang round the till with the school-kids and hoodies.

Clutching my Snickers, I’d patiently wait

Hoping for courage to ask for a date.

If in Morrisons, Asda or Tesco you worked

Stacking the shelves, in the aisles I’d lurk.

Then when the coast was all clear I would hurry,

Ask for directions to chilli and curry.

Ask you politely how you’ve been keeping,

If on the checkouts you’ve lately been beeping,

If you were bored with pricing and stacking

Maybe you’d like to help with my packing.

And if in a barber’s you wielded the clippers

On pensioners, teenagers, curly-mopped nippers,

I’d visit you daily so don’t be appalled

If by Friday I finally ended up bald.

If you worked in a baker’s, I could visit perhaps,

Squeezing your buns and admiring your baps,

Longing to ask you to come for a stroll,

Secretly wishing we’d both share a roll.

If you worked in a pet-shop, then each day I’d come

For a dozen more tins of pedigree Chum -

But I’ve not got a dog (is that a surprise?);

I suppose I could always take up making pies.

And if in a butcher’s you served me with pork,

Perhaps I would muster the courage to talk

And maybe you’d answer me - what a relief! -

We’d discuss Cumberland sausage and beef.

Conversation would flourish - if I’m not mistaken -

And pretty soon after I’d bring home the bacon.

If you worked in a bookshop, the books I would buy!

Through fantasy, fiction and faction I’d fly.

Autobiographies, novels and thrillers,

Travel books, cook books and Stephen King chillers,

Tragedies, comedies, period histories,

Westerns, romances and whodunit mysteries.

I’d buy all those books even though I’m not needing ‘em

Who knows?! – I might even get round to reading ‘em!

In a hardware shop? I’d come in for candles,

For peas and for hoes and of course for fork handles.

With two Ronnies’ humour I’d hope to amuse

Though I’m longing to ask you for extra long screws.

So don’t think it weird if each day (except Sundays)

I come into your shop to buy women’s undies!

I try to persuade you they’re all for my sister

Though you probably think I’m a perverted mister.

I wish that you worked in Comet or Boots -

I’d breeze into there and I’d not give two hoots -

In Argos, in Sainsbury’s, or in B&Q,

Iceland or Homebase or a shop that sells shoes,

A DIY store, a garage, a plumbers …

I wish you worked anywhere else … but Anne Summers!

John Fewings

NORAH

Norah’s nearly 90

And still she likes to flirt

And I like to flirt with Norah

‘Cause no-one’s gonna get hurt

‘Cause neither of us is thinking

Of dashing off to bed

Unless she needs a little nap

Or 40 winks instead

There is no need to be alarmed

I’m not sinister or shady

I just help Norah to recall

She’s still a sexy lady

Although the years have bent her frame

And her skin may now be wrinkly

Her mind is still as lively

Her eyes are still as twinkly

And in our quiet moments

She recalls her many lovers

“There was Bill and Jim and Bob and Tim

And half a dozen others.”

And now she has her gentleman

“He likes to bring me flowers”

They sit and chat of this and that

And while away the hours

He likes to make her giggle

He relishes her laughter

His eyes and hers are moist with tears

And happy ever after

And in her head she’s 24

And swirling at a dance

She’d glide around a ballroom floor

Given half a chance

But falling from her Zimmer frame

She knows she could get hurt

But Norah’s still a woman

And Norah likes to flirt

John Fewings

Swinging on our gate

There are lots of things I like a lot,

There are two or three things I hate,

But one of the things I like the most

Is swinging on our gate.

Sweets and tarts and chocolate

And chips upon a plate;

Not one of these is quite as neat

As swinging on our gate.

Two tiny tots live down our street;

They both think that I'm great,

Because I keep those two amused

While swinging on our gate.

Sometimes my mother thinks I'm lost -

She does get in a state;

She ought to know that I will be

Swinging on our gate.

In the warmth of Summer evenings

I like to stay up late,

Not watching telly or playing games -

Just swinging on our gate.

When there's no-one else to talk to

And you really need a mate,

I'm happy talking to myself

While swinging on our gate.

So, if I've got a problem,

I don't get in a state;

I think it through in peace and calm

While swinging on our gate.

John Fewings

M1

There are hundreds,

There are thousands

All scurrying to get there

But no-one glances as they hurry by.

A car on a motorway’s

A very lonely place;

Encased within your shell,

You can cry.

John Fewings

Elvis

I thought it was odd

How he carried a hod

And trundled cement up and down.

When he wiggled his pelvis

And said he were Elvis

Then we all knew that he was a clown.

There’s Paddy and Mick,

Both real quick with a brick

So be careful should you call them thickies.

Though they’re not very bright

They both shine in a fight;

They’re a regular tough pair of brickies

They both said the lad had some daft aspirations

With his quiff and his blue suede shoes.

And as for those damaging pelvic gyrations,

They’d make any poor sod sing the blues!

He was jumping and jiving

And ducking and diving

And hollering more than he oughta.

He was hiding and skiving,

Spent more time conniving

Than he ever spent mixing up mortar.

Before this place he worked at McDonalds

Though they said all he did there was sing.

And when I asked why, he said with a sigh,

“Because I am the true Burger King.”

And he feeds you this story of growing up tough

Of clawing his way from the ghetto,

But I’m sure that I saw him a month or two back

Stacking up shelves down at Netto.

And who is this Colonel he’s talking about?

Is he just some kind of a nut?

‘Cos he ain’t going far with this rock and roll star

If he don’t lose that beer-belly gut.

He’s been curling his lip and wiggling his hip

But he just ain’t been pulling his weight.

He may be a “hound-dog”, whatever that means,

But I tell you he’s no builder’s mate.

He’s had umpteen jobs – or so I’ve heard tell

And each time he’s been given the sack.

Well its no different here

With a flea in his ear

From today he won’t be coming back.

The work that he does is just not up to scratch

And the flak I am fed up with fielding.

For anyone out there who needed to know,

Elvis has left the building … site.

John Fewings

METALLICA

If I had to be a metal by choice

(Heaven knows how that choice might arise!)

I wouldn’t be platinum, silver or gold -

Does that fill you perhaps with surprise?

For though they’re so noble they’re oh so aloof,

With class and with accent so plummy.

Perhaps I’d consider a metal more base

Or something a little more chummy.

Iron’s reliable, solid and strong,

Dependable, sturdy and steely

But lacking emotional intelligence -

I need something more “touchy and feely.”

Lead plumbs the depths of thought philosophical;

Ponderous, thoughtful and deep.

Not sure about nickel, it sounds insubstantial

To be honest, it sounds rather cheap.

I certainly don’t want to be big, loud and brassy;

I might settle for chrome (it’s a little more classy).

Zinc sounds so common – zirconium exotic -

Whereas tungsten and tantalum sound quite erotic.

Rubidium, calcium, cobalt, magnesium,

Molybdenum, cadmium, copper and caesium.

So many to pick from – I’m spoilt for choice -

But in which of the metals could I truly rejoice?

The trouble with metal - it all sounds so static;

I want to be fluid - on that I’m emphatic.

Radium dissipates (I find that quite curious)

If I faded away like that I’d be furious!

So which of the metals is creative, quick-witted?

With the freedom to run about free?

Though you may think I’m mad as a hatter

(Does it matter?)

It’s mercury I’d be!

John Fewings

GO FISH!

Down at the bottom of the deep blue sea

Catching fishes for my tea.

Halibut, turbot, cod, dace, hake,

Salmon, haddock, swordfish - Take! Take! Take!

Sardine, mackerel, herring, snapper, trout;

Haul them from the water ‘til they’re all fished out!

Catfish, dogfish, eel, scad, skate;

No-one thought to count ‘til it was far too late.

Anchovy and tuna, gudgeon, carp and shark:

Call in at the chippy on your way home in the dark.

You can buy some mushy peas, a sausage if you wish,

You can buy some chips – but there’s no more fish!

John Fewings

Three cherries in a row

Ho-ho-ho!

Three cherries in a row!

Collect up the money

And away we go!

I'll buy myself some chips,

I'll buy myself a fish,

I'll buy myself some chocolate

And an ice-cream if I wish.

I'll buy myself some candy-floss,

I'll buy myself a bun,

I'll buy myself a can of coke

Or maybe more than one!

But wait just a minute,

My money must be stuck!

If it doesn't come soon

Then I will be out of luck.

Don't get your hopes up,

Take a look there.

What can you see?

Two cherries and a pear!

No chips!  No fish!

No coke!  No bun!

I don't suppose I'm going to have

Very much fun.

Boo-hoo-hoo!

What a crying shame!

I've wasted all my money

On a bandit game.

John Fewings

Rant

I don’t strut or rant or leap around or pace about the stage

Expostulate politically with anger and with rage

Tell you what it’s really like to fight against the odds

Complain about the posh, the rich and other lucky sods

Who were born with a silver teaspoon protruding from their mouth

Or had the sad misfortune to be born in the stuck-up South

I’m getting far too old for that

Though once I bawled and bellowed

I’ve moved on 30 years since then

I’ve softened and I’ve mellowed

I know now I can’t change the world

For no-one listens, do they?

Besides it takes me half the day

To even change the duvet.

I tell myself my new restraint

Means I’m older and I’m wiser

Though I sometimes write a stiff complaint

To the Beverley Advertiser

About unlevel pavements

Or excess doggy doo

Or hoodies or Poles or pigeons or moles

And the damage they can do!

I get annoyed by gangs of youths

By the lack of law and order

I told the Driffield Guardian

And the Bridlington Recorder

But does the council do ‘owt

They bloomin’ well do not

Except send the little so-and-so’s

On a cruise upon some yacht!

So while they’re on some jolly

Crossing the Atlantic

I’m stuck in my flat in my coat and my hat

Going bleeding frantic

Cos the blessed heating’s gone again

I’ve been freezing for a term here

But nobody out there seems to care

If I get hypothermia!

Now that’s a thing to rant about

There’s a case there to be made

But no-one wants to listen

To the zimmer frame brigade

Now here’s the truth - an angry youth

Can strut and rant and rave

But no-one wants to hear you moan

As you’re heading for the grave.

I suppose I should just face the truth

Before I have a fit

This angry young man of yesterday

Has become today’s grumpy old git!

Rant over.

John Fewings

Merrick

Top-hatted, silk-tied gentlemen and ladies all a-bustle

Laugh and joke and giggle and loudly share their fright.

“Can it be real?!  Was that a man?!”  “My dear, ‘twas just a hustle.”

Their cobble-clatter carriage wheels mis-punctuate the night.

And when gaslights from the penny gaff are finally extinguished -

Exhibition over – and the gaffer calls it “Time!”

A shadow of a creature drags back toward the workhouse,

Seeking out the shelter of the shadows and the grime.

Nor African nor Indian, this elephantine creature,

Muscles heavy burdened with the sackfuls of his bulk,

Hauls his wearied limbs of gargantuan proportion

Along the darkened alleyways to loiter and to skulk.

Cranial protuberance disguises his humanity.

His porridge-lumpy cheeks struggle vainly for expression

His physical affliction oft mistaken for insanity.

Rarely given second chance to change that first impression.

Dragging ragged sackcloth through cobbled vales of piss,

His liquid eye of octopus surveys each gin-grey alley;

Alights upon a trashy pile – where something is amiss -

His curiosity aroused - A momentary dally -

A rustle of the heap leaves him mindless of himself

For huddled there twixt road and wall, in filthy foetal curl,

Wafer thin and feather light and flimsy as an elf,

Scarce lifting up her sorry cup - a ragamuffin girl!

He tosses half a penny and for just a fleeting while

Strokes her greasy, scabby head and grieves her sorry plight.

And in that fractured second he elicits half a smile

Then shuffles quietly back into the shadows and the night.

John Fewings

Cobbled together

A charm of finches, a gaggle of geese,

A litter of pigs, we all know;

A muster of peacocks, a shoal of fish.

Ah, but who says that it’s so?

So, with the aim of enhancing the language

And increasing your perspectives,

I’ve assembled together for future use

This cobble of collectives.

A chatter of mums, a giggle of girls,

A mutter of dads, a confusion of curls,

A choke of smokers, a bashful of boys

A groan of jokers, a floorful of toys.

A gurgle of babies, a wail of nippers,

A murmur of nuns, an eyeful of strippers,

A whatever of teens, a busy of cops,

A tutting of middle-aged ladies in shops.

A prance of gays, a powder of judges,

An autumn of leaves, a chirrup of budgies,

A chase of dogs, an explosion of sparks,

An arrogance of cats, a compliance of clerks.

A moaning of dieters, a slouch of hoodies,

A snoop of wardens, a snitch of goodies,

A complaint of the elderly, a scurry of mice,

An absence of waiters, a headful of lice.

A tumble of gymnasts, a rustle of dancers,

A panic of cooks, a swotful of answers,

A pinhead of angels, a slur of drinkers,

A fraud of MPs, a ponder of thinkers.

A spring of bulbs, a fountain of flowers,

A passing of minutes, a drag of hours,

A tedium of anglers, a splash of puddles,

A swelter of blankets, a comfort of cuddles.

A barcode of zebras, a stand of flamingos,

A playful of puppies, a chorus of “Bingos!”

A fluffy of cygnets, a ballet of swans,

A prickle of hedgehogs, a study of dons.

This is some challenge, for sure, and I know it’s

Enough to keep busy a whole rhyme of poets.

So many collectives - but I’ll not be vexed;

I’m going to start working on similes next!

John Fewings

Hampered by poor hearing

I talked it all through with our Janet -

In truth it was her idea.

“You’ll have to order by phone,” she said,

“I don’t think they sell them round here.”

A basket of goods on a Christmassy theme

Some cake and preserve and some drink

Some cheeses and biscuits and that kind of thing

“They’ll like that,” she said, “Don’t you think?”

So I rang some directory thingy.

They gave me some numbers to call.

I rang up the first one they gave me,

Didn’t bother to ring round them all.

I’m not all that good on the telephone;

Can’t always make out what they say.

They asked me some questions

About colour and size and what I was hoping to pay.

When they asked me the size that I wanted.

I said, “A metre?  A metre and half??”

“That’s a little bit big!” said the salesgirl.

I could tell she was stifling a laugh.

“Well, a smaller one then!” I retorted.

To be honest, I just had to bluff.

She mentioned some fruit and some nuts and some berries

It sounded like Christmassy stuff.

But somewhere in all these arrangements

A misunderstanding arose.

I found it quite difficult to hear what she said

And the same went for her, I suppose.

So if you’re left wondering about the delivery

And supposing it came from a prankster,

I’d better confess, I’m to blame for the mess:-

It’s me you can thank for the hamster!

John Fewings 

Included in "Twists & Turns"

Included on "Averse 2 verse” CD

AWAY WITH THE MANGER

This "poem of the week" was a seasonal offering originally written as a two-handed skit (with lots of non-speaking extras) on the Nativity theme.

Click the title above

PALATABLE

Let’s start with some ultramarine

(It’s such a lovely blue)

A touch of sienna, a dab of cyan

And a dash of vermillion too

A splodge of Naples yellow

Of Payne’s grey just a touch

A little olive green, I think

Be careful – not too much

It could be this season’s colour

I’m sure it could be all the rage

It’s got a certain je ne sais quoi

This lovely shade of beige

John Fewings

KITTENS

Three little kittens

They lost their mittens

And they began to cry

“Oh Mummy dear, what can we do,

Our mittens we have lost.”

“You careless kittens!” Mother said,

“D’you know what mittens cost?”

“I buy you the best and what do you do?

“Just throw ‘em on the ground.

“Get out there!  Scour the streets, you three

“And don’t come back ‘til they’re found!

“They weren’t just ordinary mittens

“They were the best that money can buy

“Three stripe designer knitted

“Blooming right you can cry!”

“You’ll be crying in a minute

“When you feel the back of my paw

“Now don’t just stand looking gormless

“Go search, like I told you before.”

So off they went,

Those hapless kits,

They hunted all around;

The streets, the lanes, the alleyways,

Every inch of town,

The pubs and clubs, the tips and skips,

By the stream; along the dyke -

But could they find those mittens?

Could they heck as like?!

But reaching the end of a fruitless day,

Thinking their hopes were sunk,

They looked around at what they’d found,

The rubbish and the junk.

They hadn’t find those mittens

And they cursed their rotten luck,

But soon those kittens cottoned on;

There’s money where’s there’s muck.

And so they stayed up all the night,

Or so I’ve heard reported,

Drafting out a business plan;

By morning they were sorted.

Those three set up in business

(No point in being bitter)

A company they founded

And they called it "Kitty-litter".

So every night they scoured the streets,

Not looking for their mitts

But with their cat’s-eyes open

For other useful bits.

They gathered in the property

That others had mislaid

And returned it to their owners

Once, of course, they had been paid.

And what those kits could not return

They recycled or re-sold.

It didn’t take them long to find

They’d found their pot of gold.

They soon expanded nationwide;

Employed a thousand moggies

And, in the spirit of equality,

A couple of dozen doggies.

And when they’d reached the very top

They went back home to Mum

To show that pushy pussy cat

Just how far they’d come.

They wore their best designer gloves;

They purred with pride those kittens.

Mum through the cat-flap caterwauled,

“You’ve still not found them mittens!”

John Fewings

WRITES OF PASSAGE

I staggered down the alleyway

Not sure what I was doing

I may have had too much to drink

I had no way of knowing

For this, for me, was something new

I was a virgin boozer

I tried to keep up with my mates

Didn’t want to look a loser

But then I felt light-headed

My feet, they tripped and stumbled

“I’ve got a can of paint,” said Chip

“Let us spray,” I mumbled

So there, in letters large as life,

Though spattered round the edges,

Upon the churchyard wall we wrote

Our edifying message.

GOD IS A WAKNER, Chip wrote first

With irony dyslexic

AND SO IS BUDDHA, Bazza scrawled

He’s nowt if not eclectic

And then it came to my turn

But it wasn’t so enlightening

I just sprayed the contents of my guts

Upon our passage writings

John Fewings

EDEN’S COLOURS

There are colours only angels can see,

Whose intricate fine tracery escapes twixt rod and cone,

Discerned once by Earth’s lesser god

Now by seraphim alone.

Delicate shimmering tint - weft and weave of fairy wing.

Coruscating acrobatics of the trill that finches sing,

Tumbling, twisting, thirruping and twittering,

Each with rainbow nuance glittering,

Weaving and twining with shimmering grace

Birdsong’s iridescent lace.

The chirrup of cicada - a rippling dappled flush.

The crisp and crinkle tinge of each autumn leaf’s soft blush.

Purple-green of salmon scale, flapping-leaping crazy.

Cool blue of evening oxygen, translucent dancing-lazy.

The shades that play within shadows; deep within deep the streak and the highlight,

Hidden to all but angelic eyes as they speculate the twilight.

Hues that fringe the promised bow, lustrous, shimmering, sheer,

Whose very names, a mystic tinkle, we are not tuned to hear.

Infra and ultra do them no justice - though they seek no such restraint

For they are free of rules and form and of definition’s taint.

They’ve permission to glissando, grandioso and crescendo

Or gently flutter, lightly fritter in soft diminuendo,

To implode upon themselves or to fill the earthly span

Wherever and whenever … except the mind of man.

Not since Eden.

There are colours only angels can see,

Perceptible no longer by the likes of you and me.

Would that Adam had not turned his orbs to lust

And closed our longing eyes to earth’s rich lustre.

John Fewings

LET’S GET FRUITY

If I was a fruit I’d not be an apple

Though I do like the crisp and the crunch,

And I’d not be a grape – I’m too vain for that -

Don’t want to be one of a bunch.

Lemons and limes and citrus-type fruits

Make your ears laugh - they’re juicy and tangy -

But they can make you cry if they squirt in your eye;

They’re better with something meringue-y.

Peaches and plums take so long to ripen

It’s as well if you’re not in a rush -

Then (don’t ask me why) in the blink of an eye

They turn to a handful of mush.

Raspberries squish and strawberries squash

They’re tasty but oh so ephemeral

And the prices they charge are way over the top.

I’m surprised if ever they sell them all.

So what should I be?  What would you likely choose?

What fruit would you cherish and treasure?

What would delight you?  What would excite you?

What bring you the maximum pleasure?

Would you fancy a date?  Or a handful of nuts?

An apricot, greengage or guava?

Answer me straight with no ifs or buts

I could be a lychee if you’d rather.

If I was a paw-paw would you crave more-more?

Please tell me – excuse my bravado –

I could be a berry, a quince or a cherry

A passion fruit or avocado

I know you wouldn’t stand messing about

If you had to peel me or pip me,

So I think I’ll just be a banana

And let you be the one to unzip me!

John Fewings

LAVENDER’S BLUE

Lavender’s blue

Dilly dilly

Lavender’s green

When I am king

Dilly dilly

You will be married to someone else

With a house and two cars

And two kids in college

A dog and two cats

And holidays abroad

And I’m just a dim memory

From when we were kids

Lavender’s blue

Dilly dilly

John Fewings

GOT IT ON MY LIST

With a list you’ve no need to panic

It tells you just what you must do

It will keep your head above water

Remind you what’s what and who’s who

A list of the people you know you must call

A list of all those who call you

Their telephone numbers and email address

And their facebook identity too

A list of the things we gave people for Christmas

The things we were bought in return

I’m fed up with recipe books every year

You’d think that by now they would learn

And when it comes round to next Christmas

(Next year I’m not making a fuss)

The amount that we spend on their presents

Will depend on what they spent on us

I’ve a list of the shopping I need to get in

And where is the best place to buy it

And which of the brands are the less fattening ones

I’ll confess it – I’m trying to diet

I list all the things that I’ve have eaten each day

The ingredients and the amount

The Weightwatchers points (what a puzzle that is!)

And the total calorie count

I list how far I’ve done on the treadmill

And how far I do in cross training

And how far I run on a Sunday as well

Though I don’t go out if it’s raining

I’ve a list that’s supposed to show weight loss

And you know I’m not one for complaining

But there’s definitely something not right with our scales

They say I’m not losing but gaining!

I list all the petrol I’ve put in the car

And the miles that showed on the meter

Where it was bought and the date and the cost

From which I work out miles per litre

Then there’s holiday places we’ve been to

And the places I’d still like to visit

There’s enough on my list for the next 20 years

Surely that’s not too much to ask, is it?

There’s the books I’ve read since aged thirteen

Each film I see and who’s in it

The shows that I’ve seen at the theatre as well

That’s a short list – I think I might bin it

I’ve been keeping a record of how much I drink

Though there’s some days I know that I’ve missed

It’s difficult keeping an accurate record

I’m usually too Brahms and Liszt

Then there’s things I like watching on telly

I’ve no need to fear that I’ve missed it

I apply my philosophy all through my life

Everything’s fine if you list it

I do like my life to be ordered

On doing things right I insist

If it’s not written down I just feel I could drown

Without lists I don’t think I’d exist

But with list in hand I’ll be OK

Though I’m thinking of cutting my wrists

I’m stressing today – I’m not sure I can cope -

Who’s got the list of my lists?!

John Fewings

THOUGHTS OF AN ORDINARY BLOKE

When bullfrogs die do they finally croak?

Does an arsonist’s dream go up in smoke?

When your car won’t start does it make you choke?

Have you ever poked a pig in a poke?

When you go to a wake, is anyone awoke?

If an acorn’s OK is it oakey-doke?

Are the Spinners and Furies just ordinary folk?

Does a stroke help at all when you’re having a stroke?

Does a drug addict drink a Coke with his coke?

I’ve searched round the globe for an artichoke

What’s a cloakroom for if you don’t wear a cloak?

Who was it said that a bicycle spoke?

Is a drunk in a bath an old soak in soak?

How broke must you be if your piggy-bank’s broke?

What is it you’ve took when you’ve taken a toke?

Are they building up fires in Stoke?

If your job’s a comedian – is that just a joke?

Are these just the thoughts of an ordinary bloke?

John Fewings

ANGEL

There was a flap

There was a flicker

A shimmering of electric air

As feathers fought to fly

The pungent whiff of burning wax

Tickled passing nostrils

Mermaid ululations skimmed across the water

And from beneath the bridge

Grimed and filthy

A confused and muffled whimper

Fell and froze

And there amongst the cola cans and polystyrene coffee cups

Nestled in with garlic bread and greasy pizza boxes

Unremarked beneath the city stench and fuss and bustle

Along the towpath

There

An angel died

John Fewings

PUSSIES GALORE

The house was filled with cats

Arrogantly striding in their fancy fur coats

Lording it over the mice on the lawn

Disdainfully painting their faces with lipstick

Avoiding mirrors for fear of reprisals

Secretly spitting and scaring the meerkats

Poking their tongues all too pinkly at milkmen

Prizing the tokens discarded by tabbies

Their Japanese eyes reflected in fires

Wiggling their arses and slinking up stairways

Attracting the stare of the peeping toms

Gathered on rooftops to look in through windows

Pissing on poets who just take the piss

John Fewings

OLD WIVES’ TALES

Trust not the man whose eyebrows meet

For in his heart you’ll find deceit,

But separate arcs mean trustworthy geezers

Or denote a man with a pair of tweezers.

And if by chance a maiden’s beset

By overwhelming amounts of debt

It’s lucky for a bride to wear no knickers.

It pleases grooms – though it upsets vicars.

Drop a glove and then retrieve it

That’s unlucky (some believe it)

But if perchance you see a pin

Then pick it up – and luck floods in!

And if in so doing your finger you prick,

Quick as a flash then give it a lick

For that stops vampires, demons and devils

From sucking your soul in their midnight revels.

And if your palms begin to itch

Sure as eggs is eggs you’ll soon be rich.

But if you eat eggs then guard the shells

For witches use them to cast their spells.

Stir a pot clockwise; never the reverse!

You’ll end up in jail or something worse.

The bigger the nose upon a man’s face

The bigger his bits in a private place.

They’ll tell you that, these big-nosed guys

But if it’s not true don’t be surprised.

For whoever invented that old wives’ tale

Was probably a tiny-cocked, big-nosed male.

Don’t put on your left shoe ‘til you’ve put on the right.

Don’t eat cheese last thing at night.

Pluck a hair from your head that you’ve spotted gone grey;

There’ll be ten more there by the very next day.

If you break a mirror, for seven years

Your life will be filled with nothing but tears.

Put shoes on the table with a clattering bang

And someone you know will definitely hang.

So no-one’s been hanged since ‘64

But still put your shoes down on the floor!

Do you want to cause me days of worry?

It’s better to be safe than sorry!

If from the same pot two women pour

Then one will get pregnant, that’s for sure!

Then don’t pass another upon the stair

Or you’ll have twins with ginger hair.

Ne’er cast a clout ‘til May be out

Who’s got a clue what that’s about?!

What’s a clout and how do you cast it?

I’m probably safe: I’m probably past it!

There’s an old wives’ tale for every event:

Christmas, New Year, Easter, Lent,

Birthdays, Saints Days, Halloween too.

Things you should and shouldn’t do.

A catalogue of tales that threaten you ill

(There’s few that promise you good)

But I don’t believe in all that rubbish

And I never will! . . .

Touch wood!

John Fewings

Included in "Twists and Turns"

SEASIDE TOWN

Down in the harbour with the sludge shit-thick

Empty vessels catch their breath and creak

Rising, falling, falling, rising

Not done nowt but fall and rise all week

Sullen skies refuse to smile

Shop-front windows weep with their complaint

Dull-eyed, surly bandits turn their faces to the wall

A promenade of promises it aint

Tarpaulin shrouds on roundabouts

Swing-boats bound and tied

The ghost train stands dispirited

With no-one to take for a ride

Swooping, wheeling herring gulls

Punctuate the morning

Fighting for a chip, these squawkers

Sound a raucous warning

Seagull with a broken wing, flapping like a dead umbrella

Polystyrene chip carton scurries like a rat

Pudgy teenage pudding still hunting for a fella

Someone’s puked their guts into a “Kiss me quick” hat.

Slouched beside the bollards in a pink and purple tracky

Bored and listless caller takes a drag between the games

There isn’t any novelty – it’s all just ticky-tacky

An out of season Northern seaside town is not the same

John Fewings