Two Left Feet

Standard
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!”
 

A poem about email scammers

Standard
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.

The Baldies’ Lament

Standard
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!

Mister Smillie

Standard
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, Ice Baby

Standard
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?

The Lobbyist

Standard
 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. 

Butterfly

Standard
 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’. 

Turning 60

Standard
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,

The Pigeon (a sonnet)

Standard

Capture

What is the point of a pigeon?

Have you ever pondered this thought?

I’ve scanned the books, all religions,

And believe this bird to be a rort.

 

There you waddle, pecking at refuse;

Fat head bobbles, you coo and scratch;

And you can home (that’s no excuse);

Those other birds you cannot match.

 

But God must’ve something in His mind:

A niche, a role for you my friend;

In pity I wink, reason sure to find;

Stop this poem reaching a sad end.

 

But now white goo splatters my eye;

Then a wink from pigeon up on high!