Back in the 70s – the 19’ not 18’! Sent to the Bush as a new school teacher, I stood out in the local everyday scene Like a newcomer to Earth, an alien creature. There’s not much to tell of that tin pot town, Nothing too memorable, nothing to excite, My time in the place brought me to a frown, It was a scene from that film ‘Wake in Fright’! The town was such a long way from the coast, No waves around there to wash over my feet, The long, hot sun made me feel like burnt toast, The only waves near were those from the heat. Now when I reached town I went to the local, Thought that the pub was the best place to mix, And I found the locals there extremely vocal, When telling me how to give my love life a fix. “Go to the dance – it is on Saturday night, Down at the club, the place for you to be, You’re sure to meet there the one that is right And for all this fun, it is totally free”. These were the days of disco and strobe light, Floral shirts, chains and plenty of long hairs, So I practised my moves till I got them right Before donning my trusty Travolta flares. At the club front were pics of the local ‘famous’, No one that I knew - felt I was from Mars, But I’m sure these acts were better than dross, You could say I was ‘Dancing with the Stars’. And as I went in the band sounded so tame, No disco beat, the songs filtered from afar, In front was where all the pretty tunes came: ‘Frank Bourke and the White Rose Orchestra’. And then I had a flashback to my youth, The sounds lulled me into a déjà vu trance, Mum thought that I was becoming uncouth So she sent me to learn to ballroom dance. I told my mates “this’s where to snare a chick”, But when we arrived it was not so very hip, So we decided to extend the slide and kick To see what unfortunate girl we could trip. I then told Mum dance was not for me - “As a footballer it‘s hard for me to turn”, I made up this lie to be wholly dance free, In fact, we‘d been told “Don’t ever return”. Now awake from my dream I glanced around, To my shock I thought I was in outer space, Purple hair, false teeth and specs abound, Had I walked into a retirement place? As I retreated a slap came on my shoulder, Like a cougar her pounce couldn’t be neater, The invite to dance from one so much older - A purple-headed young male people-eater! She guided me quickly into the dance fray, Stumbling, bumbling – what were those steps? For this nightmare to be over I could only pray Like a tired lifter asking “how many more reps?” Just then I looked up and admired the Queen, Her portrait was on the wall for all to view, Young Liz was surely not the worst I‘d seen, I joined Prince Phil on the interested queue. But as I was perving I forgot to do swerving, Tripped over feet and sailed through the air, As I flailed, wailed, readied for a bruising To my chagrin, I heard my tight flares tear. Down went dancers all across the dance floor, My face landed on what felt like floppy foam, But the pain in my foot was so hard to endure, I immediately let out an almighty groan. My nose was wedged in her luxurious bust, And after I struggled to pull all my snout out, I peered down to see what was the foot pain fuss, And saw that some guy had my foot in his mouth. ‘Foot-in-mouth’, you say, why would this be sore? But what you’ll hear next is definitely grubby, My shoe had dropped off to show me the gore, Digging his dentures in was the old duck’s hubby! Torn pants, red face, the savaged foot and more, If this was a dream, I‘d awoken in fright, Retreating quickly I fumbled for the door, As they say in the theatre: “Exit stage right”. Back to the pub I slunk feeling like a joke, This was a set up – I‘d been taken for a ride, News was out ‘bout the bloke from the big smoke, Beers all round helped my embarrassment hide. Now I sit back, old, living in the Sticks, I recall the night of my dance initiation, If I’d paid more attention to ballroom tricks I would have avoided the painful foot situation. From this there’s something for all to live by, The wisest of sayings, so hard to refute: “Be careful when telling a little white lie It’ll always come back and bite you on the foot!”
TRASH RECYCLED Is this shady business? we’re all wearing dark glasses ‘SPAM’ tagged to our chests For some reason we all have a sneeze or sniffle In the ante room sitting nervously like at the dentist’s awaiting our fate for someone to hit the ‘Delete’ button Outcasts – all of us Let’s listen in to the Trash talking over there the cute blonde I’m Lenin oops I mean Lena cute Russian girl very single seeking man for good times why I here? cough And across from me that swarthy guy With the warmest of heart and fondest greeting; I trust that our friendship will not be fleeting; I understand that my contact may surprise: If it infringes your privacy, I apologise. My new dearest one and now most beloved; A moment to tell you of funds I have recovered; Will you offer me your trust and helping hand? My humble name: Dr Nana Nowayaskam. I am, friend, from the government of Nigeria (or was that Sierra Leone, Ghana or Algeria?); Dear One, listen to my most heartfelt proposition: I trust you will have no barriers or opposition. I offer you great wealth and a lifetime of riches (what is giving me fever, coughs and those itches?); I know the others are most abrupt and ingenuous But this offer, friend, is nothing short of ingenious. My colleagues are certain and totally unanimous That you, my friend, are the only one to help us; And so that we can transfer this large amount All we need are details of your bank account. Then, dearest, you will achieve the greatest wealth, Importance, fond love and the best of health; All this fortune for placing in me your trust; Let us seal the deal now – it has to be a must! So in considering this my most sincere request, Please think of why it is far better than the rest; There is one reason why it differs from this kind: None of the others have written it in rhyme. And the others: there’s a guy who rattles with pills whenever he moves another with a roulette wheel another from a bank or two And me I find it difficult to walk due to several let us say enhancements Will we end up in a a molten vat or a gas chamber? whoa! who pressed the ‘Delete’ trapdoor button? Floating a white light: is this the gateway to cyber-hell? No, there is a cyber-god! recycled I’m back with a gender change My dear friend let me tell you about myself: I am here to give you the greatest of help; A tale of woe with foreboding I must tell; My humble name: Mrs Betsy Noble La Belle. See my husband, an upstanding gent from the South Passed away suddenly, from cancer of the mouth, And as I may no longer be here due to ill health I thus wish to dispose of our substantial wealth. I offer you great wealth and a lifetime of riches (what is giving me fever, coughs and those itches?); I know the others are most abrupt and ingenuous But this offer, friend, is nothing short of ingenious... Trash or treasure? – trick or treat? What comes around goes around.
Once I had a hairy mop, A curly, furry crop, Hair today - gone tomorrow, Just one strand I’d like to borrow. My Kingdom for a hair, It really is not fair, Some have got it; Some have lost it, Why should I despair? Like Warnie, Loz and Mo, It’d be nice to buy a ‘fro, Even a hair here and there, There’s plenty out there to share! ‘Bald eagle’, ‘chrome dome’, There’s nothing on our pate, Yes, you don’t need a comb, But with the ladies we don’t rate. Some say ‘bald is beautiful’, Some say ‘bald are virile’, But trust me it’s all a ruse, Just a big excuse, We’re really only… man refuse. So c’mon baldies, let’s share the bare. O, Dome Sweet Dome!
I once had a teacher named Smillie, Yet smiley he was not, He ruled the class with an iron fist, Wielded the cane with a very strong wrist. Now Smillie was from the land of Burns, ‘Scootland’ he would attest, Yet to him love was not a ‘red, red rose’, But a scared class of boys that always froze. We were all supposed to be good at maths, This was class 2A no less, But Smillie always read the daily news, Giving us the chance to dream and cruise. ‘Eah Doofty where’s your maths homework?’ It was enough to make me choke, And when I couldn’t recite that theorem, Even the class down the building could hear him. The smartest in the class was Robert Smart, Yes ‘Smart’, I do not lie, And Smillie gave Smart his full attention, As he was the only one with good retention. And so it came to the Judgement Day, The end-of-term exams, Now Smart excelled with ninety four, And Dufty slightly less with twenty four. So off I strode to the class next door, Much to my parents’ chagrin, But how I struggled to withhold my glee, For I was in 2B and I was free!
Ice is not nice It makes be mad It makes me bad It makes me sad Ice is so nice I score the high Fly in the sky Never to die Ice is not nice The times I lied My brain is fried I will be tried Ice is so nice I’m in this jail I’ll soon get bail It’s in the mail Ice, Nice Baby?
A collection of over 50 poems I wrote between 2009 and 2019 including several unpublished poems. Access the book at https://www.amazon.com/Blend-collection-2009-2019-Neil-Dufty-ebook/dp/B08R7Y1ND3/ref=sr_1_2
Have you sat in a lobby watching them come and then go? In and out, to and fro, wondering where in fact they go. They say Life is like a lobby with a revolving door; In and out, to and fro, where in fact do we really go? See, watching in a lobby is becoming my hobby.
I won, he muttered to himself, in a moment of reflection sitting at his desk in the Oval Office.
This was not happening, I won on the night, fair and square. The election was rigged. Fake votes, fake news. To lose was unthinkable, to lose to Sleepy Joe, no way. Seventy million voted for me. They follow me, they love me. I am The President. I will show that I won. I won! I won! I won!
Don’t they realise I saved Americans from the China Flu? I have given them the cure. (Anyway, I had China Flu and it was no big deal). And I’m Making America Great Again, I deserve a second chance and I…
“That is me, My Son”
Standing in front of him was a swarthy, tall man with shoulder-length black hair dressed in long white robes. He wore leather sandals on his feet and held a long, slender piece of wood that was curled at the top.
“Security,” The President yelped. “Help, Security.”
“There is no reason to fear me, My Son. I come in peace.”
“Imposter, Bin Laden, armed terrorist…”
The President fumbled under his desk for the button. “Oops, not that one, that’s for Kim. Here it is, the security button.” He pressed it, nothing happened, no alarms, no security staff rushing in. In a lather he then sprang to his feet and rushed to the office door knocking over an American flag on the way. The door was locked. He banged on the door, “Help. Security”. But there was no response.
The President was isolated. He turned to the imposter who was impassively following his movements. He then thought of a gun and searched feverishly for a weapon. A gun, there has to be a gun, all Americans have guns, but no gun.
Sweating profusely, his face florid, The President then picked up a paper weight from his desk and confronted the imposter.
“Who are you? What do you want? How did you disable my security?” The President held the paper weight above his head threatening the impostor. “You will be killed for this.”
“I am Jesus Christ.”
“Oh, sure you are – and I’m Donald Duck.”
“My Father, the Lord God has sent me to save Mankind.”
Slightly placated, The President cautiously placed the paper weight back on his desk. He was still concerned about the long piece of wood held by the so-called Christ, but it did resemble a shepherd’s staff, not a dangerous weapon. The imposter looked harmless enough, and even had some type of circular light hovering over his head which gave off a peaceful aura.
The guy might just be a loony, The President thought, and there were plenty of those in America. He might even be one of those crackpot Democrats!
“Look, Jesus or whatever you name is, I promise I won’t have you killed. We have plenty of aid programs for the mentally disturbed. I’ll personally have you committed to a mental institution and you’ll get plenty of help.”
“I wish to talk with you about God’s Kingdom.”
Must be one of those climate activists upset about my withdrawal from the Paris Accord.
“Look climate change is fake news, fake news. Coal is good…”
The Christ guy looked at him with a slight smile but did not comment.
That didn’t seem to work. Maybe he was here to protest about something else like racial abuse or the plight of the poor.
“If you are here about black people or the homeless. Look, I can see you’re poor and kinda black. I can help you get a job, I’ve got an empire you know”.
“I have returned to save all Mankind. For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
A Bible-basher, has to be. Better not upset this guy as he might be one of my God-fearing followers, The President mused, now sitting at his desk.
“OK, I think we are done here. You’ve got your 15 minutes of fame, for whatever you believe in. I’m extra busy trying to prove that I should have a Second Term. Now it’s time to reverse the magic trick and allow the security system to work again. I’ll let you go without conviction.”
“The Lord is my Shepherd…”
“I’m getting mad again. If you’re the real Jesus Christ and you’re back, then show me a miracle to prove it. Something like turning stone to bread, feeding the five thousand…”
“I have encased your world in silence so we can talk about the future of the world.”
The President pondered. Wait on, this guy might be legitimate. Who could disengage the security system of the greatest country on Earth? This was a miracle, not magic. It could very well be the second coming of Christ.
“Alright, I’m starting to warm to you as Christ, starting to believe. Look, I need some help to win the election I did win. Like you, it should be my second coming. I can take a selfie of us and post it on Twitter. ‘Jesus Christ endorses The President for another term.’ It’ll go viral. That’ll trump everything.”
Christ looked bewildered.
The President then rubbed his eyes. He was under his desk in the foetal position. Christ was gone.
“Hell!” he yelled.
A butterfly flew on by Flittered, fluttered Caught the eye It flew into the sky Blue, azure Flew so high Higher than I could spy Gutted, I muttered ‘I hope it will not die’.
When I turn Sixty – I’ll hike the Kokoda Trail (No way my body will fail), I’ll bound up the highest mountain, Frolic naked in a city fountain. And when I turn Sixty - I’ll photograph like a kid, No lines, wrinkles, nothing hid, My skin pristine, cheeks a flush, OK they might use the odd air brush. And when I turn Sixty - There’ll be no stopping me, Watch me climb the tallest tree, Hey, I will be the living proof Of the meaning of Eternal Youth. And when I turn Sixty - I’ll prove that being Sixty Is the new Fifty, Forty, Thirty, On the wrong side of middle age? No, Sixty’s got to be all the rage. But now that I’ve turned Sixty - I’ve started to feel a bit ditsy, Memories start to make me misty, And the old back is playing up, May be no longer the young pup. And now that I’ve turned Sixty - I think I’ll take Sixty lying down, Curl on the couch like a sleepy hound, Snooze, then pop open a can of VB, And watch adrenaline sports on TV,