Tag Archives: Observation

Best Before Date


Loaf of bread, best before date 1-2-16

Banana, best before date 2-2-16

Skimmed milk, best before date 3-2-16

A bottle of wine…

Barn eggs, best before date 4-2-16

Whole Chicken, best before date 5-2-16

Sugar, best before date 6-2-16

Bottle of water, best before date 7-2-15!

Dates, best before date… correction

One bad joke, use by date…

This poem’s best by date…

Everything expired… rotting freely.


The Evil Wallpaper and the Stuffy Room

I cannot speak in this room, my tongue is sewn to my inner mouth like an old rolled up, tatty, old gym mat, left tied in a locked and forgotten storage room.  I am now reduced to a baby regarding my quality of speech, no-one, not even myself will understand my dialect now.

Subsequently, my eyes are like CCTV cameras, tirelessly scanning people I will never know. Such resources require feeding before I again starve myself from predictable individual markets of specialised code. Right now I do not want to buy into anything, other than some much need for some personal inanimate objects, or Mother Nature’s pleasantries.

Then, surprisingly, a section of room clears, I notice someone familiar to me; they sit directly opposite as if waiting in a crowded underground station for a train that will never arrive.

Immediately, faces and limbs move blurrily around them like a meaty aura, descaling time, they somehow cut a somewhat dominant figure with a slouching posture; sitting in an otherwise frenetic sequence of scribbled picture flick images.

All the while, a hideous wallpaper pastes the background; unnaturally large and repetitive design of supposedly beautiful coloured flowers. Seemingly this Rorschach of entangled petals also emits a pungent scent from hells garden, choking our airways ever so slowly. Or, a ladies offensive perfume that loiters excessively as she struts passed on death-defying stilts with a cocktail.

Slowly the wallpapers flowers grow, entwine and weave, swallowing all that stands near it, suffocating the lost and forgotten drones that are top-heavy while on the edge of walls made from verbalised, exhaled breath; an endless wordy fever swells the room into sickness.

Then a sudden refreshingly pure breeze blows playfully, it caresses my moist cheek, my unacquainted companion acknowledges the very same, welcomed oxygen.  As I raise my right hand to my drying face, I notice at precisely the same moment they do the very same, it is as unnerving as it is welcoming.

It is then we leave the room together.


Night and Day

The day is the same as the night,

Except at night there’s less natural light.

And so the night is the same as the day,

But the day lends itself away.


Then if the day is the same as the night,

The night hides the obvious from sight.

Only the moon outstays its welcome,

Hanging there as a forgotten kite.


Not can be said of the moon and the sun,

The moon controls the night and tides for fun.

The sun is the day and directly cannot be seen,

Improves your mood and raises self-esteem.


Without these forces then where would you be?

Are you a tree hugger or drawn to the sea?

Do you have a connection? Receive power from the moon?

Will you run to the sun, be a shadow by noon?


Losing It (Dementia Poem)

I have a comb in my hand

What do I do know?

I have a comb in my hand

I have a wallet in my hand

What do I do know?

I have a hanky-chief in my hand

I have a comb in my hand

What do I do know?


What was that? What was that?

What’s was that noise?

What’s that noise?

What do I do know?

What do I do know?

I see a face

I can’t remember

What do I do know?

What do I do know?

She’s smiling

I can’t remember

I have a wallet in my hand?

What do I do know?

It’s all gone

Can’t remember

I feel so tired

What do I do know?


What do I do now?

I have a comb in my hand

She’s talking to me

What do I do know?

Can’t remember


What do I do know?

Put my coat on?

Oh oh oh

Where are we going? Where are we going?

Doctors, oh oh oh

What do I do know?

What do I do know?

I have a hanky chief in my hand

I feel tearful

What do I do know?


The Loneliness of the Short Distance Writer

I observe and I

Stand on edges

As I hear millions of

Meaningless words spoken

As a deterrent

for those that are needed

All Languages

Sending me

To an episode from my

Implicit memory

As I cope I smile

Then I choose not to

At precisely all the right moments

Eventually I care not

I am somewhere else

If you’re like me

You wait to be


Or to be completely


That is expected

If you’re like me

The here and now

Will have its time

in the future

To be useful again

And I write