Author Archives: W is for Duck

Good evening and welcome to my blog.

Tonight’s offering is a foray into new territory for me, in terms of the rhythm or flow of the poem. The topic is also new, but I am in the process of experimenting with writing styles and with how the poem flows when read. I’m not trying to change my “voice” – I like the way my poems are, but I am aware that they are raw, and unrefined. That being said, this poem does sound different to the others I have written.

But, you can’t make an omelette without shaking a chicken violently,  so I am prepared to embrace new ideas.

All my poems so far have had either none or very little editing once they have been written. Since I have been performing my poetry at open mic nights, and since meeting other poets, I have received lots of valuable feedback  which has made me look at what I write with a slightly more critical eye. Now I will aim to write my Friday Poem in advance enough to be able to come back to it after a few days and read it ‘fresh’ and make any changes I feel necessary. My aim is to write even better poetry, which will be more enjoyable (even more enjoyable) for you to read.

So, not one to rest on my Laurels (or Hardys), I am trying to improve what I do.

 

Here is this week’s Friday Poem, I hope you like it.

 

At The End

When old age comes and strips me of my youth

And time’s incessant marching colours grey,

What gifts will life bestow me, else than truth:

That from death’s path one cannot turn away.

 

And facing fate then, how should I appear?

To others – work-mates, family, or friends.

Should they all see me eaten up by fear?

Such action will not save me from my end.

 

Enthusiasm has the same effect;

In that it gives us no more time at all.

So act – or not; or if you wish, reflect.

For each of us the hourglass sand must fall.

 

To some death is a very final act.

The reaper ceases all and seals our fate.

Belief for others binds them to this pact:

Reunion with those gone before does wait.

 

To each of us death comes — that is no lie.

Don’t look for comfort; I have none to give.

But rather than obsess on how we die,

Our time would be best spent on how we live.

 

 

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Good evening, and welcome to my blog!

This is another trip down memory lane to a time long ago, where my judgment was just as rubbish as it is now!

Hey – at least I’m consistent.

Here it is:

 

Making a Name For Myself – Not In a Good Way

There are certain things in life that don’t mix; Nitroglycerine and Epilepsy, Sword swallowing and the hiccups, Solitaire and Schizophrenia, to name a few.

One other thing that doesn’t mix well is my sense of enjoyment and the good idea department of my brain. Yet again the combination of these has led me to disaster.

Last night, I went out with friends to a local comedy night. There were three comedians and a compere – all of which were very good. We were sat behind the front row of tables, which afforded us the luxury of not being picked on by any of the acts on stage. The compere picked on a few people, but we were safe.

There was a break between each comedian for people to get more drinks or spend a penny, and it was during one of these breaks that the trouble started.

Me and my mate were late walking back to our table due to the number of people queuing for the toilet. Our route back took us right past the front of the stage – where the compere was warming the crowd up for the next act. As I walked past level with him, he said something (i forget what) to me. My response – and I don’t know why – was to reach up and pretend to tickle his testicles. I then carried on and returned to my seat. At the time, tickling the balls of the compere seemed a great idea – I was enjoying myself, I was out with friends, it was all good.

Of course that was it – I was the centre of attention for the next 5 minutes, and was referred to by the compere every time he came back on stage. To cut a long story short, I came away from that night with the title of “Larry The Ball Tickler”.

Naively, I thought that name was only relevant within the confines of the venue. I forgot that many of the people who went to the Comedy night would also go back to the same pub we did afterwards, and that all of them would call me by my new title on sight. So my new name stuck with me last night. How long this will run for, is anybody’s guess.

In future, I think I’ll keep my ideas, and hands to myself.

Good evening and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem!!

If you thought I was going to do a poem about Friday 13th, I’m afraid you are unlucky.

This week’s poem has been in the making for a few weeks now, and while I have no doubt that I could improve on it, there only so much tweaking you can do (unless you want to pay for that sort of thing).

This poem evolved from a simple four line verse that reads:

 

A circus Ringmaster, long retired,

Lay on his death-bed and expired.

When asked what caused him to be dead,

‘Roll ups, Roll ups’ His doctor said.

 

Although only four lines, I must admit that this little verse is one of my favourites. It is simple, but effective.

 

Anyway, here is the evolved version of the little four-liner.

I like it, I hope you do to.

 

CIRCUS

 

A Circus owner long retired

Lay on his death-bed and expired.

Before he went to his eternal rest

To a life of shame he at last confessed

His Circus had brought him fame and glory

But behind the scenes was a different story.

 

Every act was in truth a sham;

Papered over by the glitz and glam.

Tricks and guile would front each show

So that paying customers would not know

The truth about these “superstars”

And would continue with their “oooh”s and “Aaaah”s

 

The daredevils who graced the high trapeze

Had tricks to put themselves at ease;

To quell their raging fear of heights

Bottles of Gin lay in their tights.

The crowds that saw them leap and soar

Soon had more women than before

Who gasped when back and forth they swung

And marvelled at just how well they hung.

 

The lion tamer, was just a fraud;

His beasts were toothless and de-clawed.

And while they snarled with ears laid flat

The was no risk of any attack.

It’s hard to really come to grief

When a savage beast only has false teeth.

Still, in Lions jaws he did taunt death

Albeit asphyxiation from bad breath.

 

The clowns were such a miserable band

On antidepressants to a man.

Against the façade of their comic species

Just like their car, they fell to pieces.

The hilarious clown baby often seen

Was 44 and on Sertraline

Ironically bringing laughter to you and me

Then off for long sessions of therapy.

 

The jugglers were initially awful – both having lazy eyes

Each carefully watching as the projectile passed by

The recipients of these mis-aimed throws

Were often the injured in the first two rows.

As the juggling became less skilled or funny

The audiences wanted danger money.

So to save on lawsuits and improve on catches

The jugglers were forced to wear eye patches

 

The bearded lady was just a joke

Simply an out of shape middle-aged bloke

The beard was real, as were his moobs

Shaped by no exercise and greasy food.

Advertised as “Shy and quiet – the lady’s choice”

To hide her deep and manly voice.

With plenty of makeup ‘she’ looked quite sweet

Though viewing was restricted to twenty feet.

 

The famous strong man was just a wimp

Even his moustache hung there limp

To make queries about his prowess mute

His muscles came from an inflatable suit.

Once pumped up, and with his fake chest hair

He made all the ladies stop and stare.

However, the secret action of the air departing

Earned him a reputation for horrendous farting.

 

At first the human cannonball was far too podgy

Which risked the act appearing dodgy.

To leave the cannon he was too fat

And in practice was pathetically spat

About two feet down to the ground

Where momentum made him roll around.

A solution was found in a twin –

Identical, apart from being more thin.

The chubby version would be obscured by smoke

And in the distance would appear the thinner bloke.

The audience would happily cheer and shout

As backstage the fat one would be crow-barred out.

 

The Ringmaster got all this off his chest

And admitted, though they weren’t the best

His circus did put on a good show

And in general the audience didn’t know.

When asked if he felt what he did was wrong

His last words were, “the show must go on!”

Which proves that no matter if you are slave or King

People will believe anything!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello.

 

I’d like to think that I’m an optimist, but in reality I probably am a pessimist. I find that my personal thoughts often turn to the worst case scenario, rather than consider that a non-bad outcome (not necessarily good – let’s not walk before we can run here) is possible. This tree of negativity has many branches; from a lack of self belief in my own ability and possibilities, to worry that my children may one day be abducted, or may be hurt or injured and me not being there to help them or protect them, to the abject fear of ever being though badly of. This last example is partly why I am so hard on myself when I make mistakes, and also why I strive so hard to please others. I have recognised that even this blog, and the poetry I write is simply me crying out to be loved. “Love me!!!” I scream – and yet, when people do I struggle to believe it. Give me a compliment and I will bat it away, or deflect it, or ignore it. Not out of arrogance or rudeness, but because I find it virtually impossible to like myself, and therefore equally impossible to believe that somebody else will. Recognising and accepting my own worth is a feat yet to be mastered. I guess I crave acceptance and love from others so much, because I don’t accept or love myself.

I’m 46 years old, earn less than £20,000 per year, do not own my own home, and do a basic administrative job. I have a very large “can’t be bothered” theme running through me – I am overweight, and should exercise. The only thing I do is walk a mile to work each morning, and although I know the long term risks of my sedentary life, I do nothing about it. I’m lazy – and have been all my life, and I don’t know how to change it. Or, if I do – I can’t be arsed to actually do it. I’m still waiting for life to bring the answers to me – a lottery win, a fantastic job offer out off the blue, the recipient of the bone marrow donation I did four years ago turning out to be the Sultan of Brunei’s cousin and him contacting me with a cheque for millions. I know life won’t do these things, but the hours I spend fantasising about winning the lottery is ridiculous. It’s an immature trait I have, I feel.

At our I house, we have an exterior light that has gone and we bought a new one but have no idea how to fit the new one (add “Should Know DIY” to the list of sticks with which I beat myself). I was able to ask a friend (I wanted to type then ‘a friend who I met through my Fiancée – he’s not my friend’ – because why would he want to be friends with me. This is the negativity I battle with) to come over and fit the new light, and while he was doing so I was so envious of his skill and talent in being able to do that. The best I could do, was to wash up and clean the work surfaces down whilst he was working – not the most manliest of tasks. I constantly have the feeling that I am not doing enough in any facet of life.

So why am I telling you all this? Firstly, because it feels good to do so. I am having counselling sessions at present in which much of this stuff is being worked on. I wasn’t sure what I would be writing about when I started this blog post, but then this stuff started coming out, and I didn’t want to stop it. My negative inner self is telling me that the only reason I wrote this is because I am seeking attention. Maybe he is right – although at the time of typing this sentence you are reading, this blog post is on a word document and hasn’t been copied onto my blog, so maybe you will never read it. However, the fact I just spoke to you probably means it will. I could go round and round like this for ages which – like the rest of my negativity – will get me nowhere.

The second reason I am telling you this stuff, is because I could never tell you this stuff – at least not face to face, without breaking down. Many of my friends, family, and work colleagues read my blog (be they’re regretting that tonight), and would not have been aware of some of the stuff I have spoken about. So I have taken the easy route and have bared all to them from a digital distance. As for the other readers and followers of my blog who live in various places across the globe, it is unlikely we shall ever meet face to face, so I divulge my innermost fears almost anonymously. You don’t know me, I don’t know you, and that’s okay.

The third reason for me revealing this stuff is that it gives it a tangibility; although documents can be deleted, and websites can crash, I feel this stuff is “out there” now. I’ve put my cards on the table where everyone (including me) can see them in the daylight. The inner voice that whispers how shit I am has now been heard by all of you, and it doesn’t like that, because as long as only I heard it, the voice was strong. Out in the open, where the wind blows the voice can be taken away on the breeze and disappear. If other people hear what the voice is saying to me, then it weakens it’s power because it’s not just me that hears it – and although I might let that happen, other people might not.

Writing this stuff here tonight does nothing to change the things I am struggling with. What it does do is bring them out of the shadows, out from the dark place where they are in control. I feel that I am showing them to the world and am saying ‘This is me; this is where I am right now”

I’m not asking for anything – please do not think that I am. If you know me, are my friend, or have had me in your life at one point or another, then you have/are doing enough already. I have felt like I have been hiding this stuff for a long time behind my façade of being jokey, funny Larry/Laurence/Laurie/Lazza/Lagrueski (Delete as appropriate based on personal knowledge of me), and I still will be the same crap joke telling, awesome poetry writing, hunky chap with a beard as I always was.

 

I’m just not prepared to continue hiding this stuff anymore.

 

Thank you for reading.

 

Good evening and welcome to my blog, and to this week’s Friday Poem.

I am an unashamed romantic at heart and every now and then I get the notion to write something romantic rather than funny for a poem. This week’s offering is one of those moments.

I hope you like it. If you do, feel free to tell people where you read it.

 

Here it is:

 

BLUEBIRD

A Bluebird alighted on my heart

And sang  a song so sweet.

She told me of the joy I’d feel

When my one true love I’d meet.

 

I asked when love would come my way

And how I’d know for sure;

The Bluebird said, that day would come

When I heard her song no more.

 

The Bluebird visited every day,

And every day did sing.

As days turned into weeks and months,

She became a cherished thing.

 

I looked for love, and once or twice

Thought the real thing I’d found.

But still my Bluebird visited me

And made her beautiful sound.

 

And then one day, she came no more;

I knew then, she had left.

Sad that her song I’d no longer hear,

I was left alone, bereft.

 

And then I looked, and saw your face

As your love came shining through.

I realised then, she had sent you to me,

And my Bluebird’s words came true.

 

 

Good evening and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

This week’s offering came as a result of a direct result of a conversation I had a number of weeks back at the excellent Seventh Seal – the gentleman’s clothing retailer and barber shop where I get the best damned beard trim and shave I ever have received.

I was talking to one of the proprietors, Toby about my poetry writing, and he was trying to recall the name of a poet he liked. The Poet’s name was Archie something, and as soon as he had said “Archie”, I instantly said “Pelago” as a play on the word Archipelago – which is a large group or chain of islands. I have always thought that “Archie Pelago” would be a good name for a character in a novel.

Toby found my play on words amusing, and suggested that I write a poem about a character called Archie Pelago – and went on to suggest that he should have multiple personalities, just like an Archipelago has multiple islands.

So, here is what I came up with.

 

 

ARCHIE PELAGO

Archie Pelago is a nice enough boy;

He runs, and jumps, and plays with toys.

But while he is great at climbing trees

He does also have seven personalities.

 

Brian – that’s personality number six

Is eighty-four, and needs a stick.

His memory isn’t what it used to be –

But he loves a biscuit with his cup of tea.

 

Personality number three – now that’s young Kelly.

She’s once was an extra on the telly.

Given half the chance she’ll tell you tales

Of walking in the background in Emmerdale.

 

Number two is a salty dog called Davey

Who served his King in the merchant Navy.

The sea air has roughened up his voice

And some of Davey’s language can be choice.

 

The fourth persona of young Archie

Is the famous showman Liberace.

Perpetually performing one of his shows

Whilst bathed in sequins from head to toe.

 

June is personality number five

A weary and bored, down-trodden housewife

She keeps bottles of gin in a battered old trunk

And frequently makes an appearance drunk.

 

The seventh member of Archie’s psyche

Is a former Elvis look-a-likey.

Who perpetually does the voice it seems

Although his accent says he’s from Milton Keynes.

 

Archie himself completes the group

And seems quite contented with his troupe

But when he’s happy, what I find most beguiling

Is that I never know which of them is smiling…..

 

 

My thanks to Toby for the inspiration!

If you want to inspire me to write a poem on a subject of your chosing, just get in touch!

 

Hello, and welcome to my blog!

I’m sorry that this post is so late, but it’s been a bit of an evening with everything being delayed by a faulty light switch in a car.

It’s a long story, which I won’t bore you with.

Instead I’ll bore you with a blog I wrote six years ago. Who am I kidding!? I know you lot love this stuff!!

So, here it is. Enjoy!!

Boring, Stilts, Embarrassment, and Early

Blimey! that was a close one.

I started writing this blog, and then got distracted and did something else. When I came back to my blog, I had a quick read through – and discovered that it was the most boring piece of writing you had ever encountered. I actually thought that telling you about how the display adapter in my laptop was on the way out would make a good topic for my blog.

I wouldn’t, it didn’t, I won’t.

Although just this second, as if to make a point, my screen flickered in a worrying sort of way……..

But never mind that (he said, saving his progress), if it turns out that my screen fails before I finish this blog, then so be it. Mind you, if I don’t get to publish it, you’ll never get  to read it and might just as well think that I simply stopped writing my blog. But if you did that, wouldn’t some of you wonder why a man who put the effort in to writing a blog every single day would simply stop out of the blue? Would you wonder if I was dead, or ill, or dead from being ill. Maybe you would think that I had some personal tragedy in my life which had made me think about the frailty of our lives and existence , and subsequently made me realise that wasting time on such frivolous things as Social Networking sites, or writing nonsense everyday, was simply a waste of my time, and therefore I decided to stop.

Or maybe you would just think “Oh, he’s stopped writing his blog – what’s for tea?”

Incidentally, halfway through that last paragraph my screen failed, and it took 10 minutes for me to get the computer working again. This is not good……

These are Roll Stilts. For some reason, I had a pair of these as a kid. Basically, you stood on them and the held the ropes in each hand and could walk about on them. I don’t know why I had them because as I was a tall child (six-foot by the age of twelve), I can’t understand the need to make myself taller. Now, these may look like harmless little stilts, but let me tell you – they could be deadly. In my experience, what would invariably happen was that due to poor foot positioning, the stilts would topple over. The first problem with this is that you more often than not twisted your ankle as you foot went over, but then as the curved edge of the stilts made contact with the ground, they would roll away from you throwing you backwards to the floor. Mind you, if there is one thing that can take your mind off a twisted ankle, it’s a crack on the back of your head.

I had a brief visitor this evening – and that’s not someone who pops round to look at your pants -, my good Friend Alyn Williams. He was in the vicinity because he was getting a take away for  his and his pretty-much-wife-but-their-not-married partner, Emma as he had been paid today. He is a man much after my own heart. He popped in to say hello and catch up while his take away was prepared. I always enjoy visitors, but was absolutely mortified when Alyn sat on my sofa and noticed a bit of food lying on the cushion next to him. I was horrified – I am not a total slob, and do tidy my house regularly. On this occasion I had forgotten that I was having any visitors and therefore did not run my Hoover round. I would also like to say that did not know that piece of food was there. if I had known, I would have cleared it up – I’m not in the habit of spreading food around my home to act as conversation starters when friend come round. So all in all, I’m very embarrassed.

Guess what I’ve got coming to work tomorrow? that’s right – a forty-foot container!! In truth, this one should not be a problem, there not too many different items, a lot of the boxes are large (= takes up more space in the container = the container takes less time to empty), and I’ve already got the warehouse sorted so every item has a place to go. I am still going in to work early though as I am currently one fifth of the way through entering 124 orders on the system. Before you gasp in admiration and horror, each order is only four lines, so it’s not too bad. If I get in for half six, I should get a good number done by the time the container arrives.

Well, I made it to the end of this blog without the comput

just kidding!!!! (I will be getting the Blogger App for my phone in case of system failure)