I lie in bed on my side awake
listening to the clock in my ear
ticking the time for my life's sake.

I lie on my side awake in bed
knowing the pulse that I can hear
is consciousness inside my head.

I lie awake in bed on my side
and the ticking clock makes it clear
I haven't slept although I tried.

I lie on my side in bed awake
and try to pacify the fear
my ageing heart makes some mistake.

I lie awake on my side in bed
wondering, in some future year,
if I will know when I am dead.

I lie in bed awake on my side
anxious to sleep but able to cheer
another night that I haven't died.

Clouds are gregarious

I motored slowly down the road
so calm and happy, almost high
on summer weather. Long unmowed
on either side the verges showed
a silent crowd of dandelions.

Their lowly heads had not the height
to wave and billow in the breeze;
their flattened faces, packed in tight
could hardly turn and yet the sight
was sunset gold on tropic seas.

Those humble flowers, so despised
by lovers of their lawns, can still
hold up their stunted heads comprised
of tiny, complex florets and will
contest the vaunted daffodil.

The floor is full of dancing women

swaying to the band,

a sisterhood of beauty brimming

fun and friendship, crammed

in front of happy landlord grinning

while their partners, jammed

against the walls, continue swimming

through their drinks and stand

unmoved by all the catchy rhythms

as if to dance is banned.

Back home though men insist on winning

conjugal rights as planned,

moving tto a different rhythm

without the need to stand.

But might the girls like dance elation

more than monotone copulation ?

Cutting Cardboard

It's much like the knitting women used to do

(going back a generation or two)

while listening to radio or watching tv

with brain in neutral and both hands free.

It's supposed to be good in the garden compost,

adding some nutrients at no cost

as the boxes are free from garden centres,

supermarkets and similar ventures.

First I strip off any packing tape

which won't decay then separate

the various surfaces till I've got

cardboard rectangles that will rot.

Since smaller pieces might speed the process

and should as well increase air ingress,

I scissor the rectangles into strips

then cut those across to give me 'chips'.

I think they help to prevent the weeds,

lawn grass cuttings and random seeds

compacting into a solid lump

that's only fit for the council dump.

So I fork the chips into the greenery,

relax, sit back and enjoy the scenery,

leave the compost for a year or two

and on the allotment just hope it will do.

Literature

The nursery rhymes of infancy
sprout fairy tales in childhood.
Then melodramas of puberty,
like comedy misunderstood,
can sideshoot farce or tragedy.

Short stories bud in adolescence
and flower in novel maturity.
Experience turns reminiscence
as falling petals of poetry
till winter frosts presage senescence,

shrinking epics to favourite verses,
shrivelled epitaphs and hearses.

Tweets 1

TEACHING
I certainly never thought much of the pay
but I did get a lot of holiday.

NOSE DROP
It seems to me now that I'm old
the end of my nose is always cold.

MALE SECRETS
The world of men is a charnel house
full of the bones from skeletons in cupboards.

She asked me to write her a poem.
No need, I said, you ARE one.

The women I want just don't want me

and the ones I don't want do.

EPITAPH

Gym junkie, gardener, poet, dancer.

PRAISEWORTHY TOLERANCE

Though murderous muslims test society

normal folk aren't murdering muslims

I'm really trying to ignor all those offers aimed to please;

I'm really tired of being conned by all the Ts and Cs.

I hate this damned detritus of the floor.

As soon as I've cleaned up there's always more.

AFFAIRS

Sex is a superficial sore.

Love is the cancer at the core.

Years calm appetites

but fail to banish fantasies.

Everybody else's death

is easily understandable.

Only our own isn't.

Do hunky guys with bigger dicks

feel extra pressure on their pricks?

SEEDLINGS

Home them longer

till they're stronger

to thwart the thugs 

of this year's slugs.

A change of mood

I played all night, ignored the scatter-gun
approach of those around me, trusted in
the colours only and the stats displayed
which all the time were in my favour.

I didn't really think of it as fun
but rather just the challenge of trying to win,
to beat the nervous stress of being afraid
to lose as a lifelong frugal saver.

But I was losing badly. Just a run
of bad luck. It can't last. It will begin
to change. Schoolboy probability made
it sure. My confidence didn't waver.

Eventually though, some doubt began to rankle.
The rumble of the windowless casino seemed
the sound of turning wheels digesting money.

The croupier's 'No more bets' among the jangle
of competing voices could be deemed
a new and different meaning not so funny.

On the one discreet clock only the angle
of the hands proved time was passing. Cleaned
out again, the cashpoint closed me down.

Time to drive home. Outside, new daylight
filtered through the air. I drove too fast,
enraged at my stupidity in wasting
self denying, miserly hoarded cash.
Away from the city the sun was an angry boil
on the hills. Reaching the scarp I braked,
ready to descend, then stopped, amazed.
Below, the usual landscape had been flooded.
Only the tops of the tallest trees reached up
for help. The white lake below stretched
to the Weald in the distance. The surface
was tumbled as if boiling. The white fog
dissolved the red mist in my mind. I sat
quietly for a while considering Nature,
Science, Beauty, The Littleness Of My
Puny Life. Driving on again
I forgot the money, just glad to be alive.