Disoriented Express

Disoriented Express (didn’t we have a lovely time, the day we went to Blackpool?)

I’m sorry, Your Honour, that I failed so badly,

It’s my own fault for being such a fool,

And I should have known an awful lot better,

Than to go on their day-trip to Blackpool.

They were from the Home of The Bewildered,

They’d only been let out for the one day,

A day without luggage or medication,

A Mystery Tour for their holiday.

The ladies and gents had all boarded the bus,

When, behind me, they closed up the doors.

It was only then that I spotted the sign,

That this was a trip with “Twilight Tours”.

I thought I was being public-spirited,

When I volunteered to go with my Gran,

There on the coach with the old folks,

Only to find I was the youngest man.

They were all in their eighties and nineties,

Dressed up in their wind-cheaters and beige slacks,

And a wide range of woolies and macs,

Were packed and stuffed in the luggage-racks.

We set off for Blackpool, all in good cheer,

But much forward progress was hard to make,

Because every ten miles down the road,

We had to stop for the next toilet break.

Each stop lasted an hour or more,

When the charra we had to disembark.

They needed some help, so came out two by two -

At times, it was like emptying an Ark.

The bus was so noisy, you wouldn’t believe,

Not from the exhaust or from underneath,

But from the vibration of walking sticks,

And the ghostly rattling of false teeth.

There was one geriatric, called Patrick,

A cheeky and mischievous old boy.

He made passes at elderly lasses,

And tried to bring the old dears some joy.

And another crusty, who answered to Rusty,

Ex-military, a dashing old blade.

He made a great fuss all over the bus,

And made great play of his hearing-aid.

  

But the girls were the ones you had to watch,

And for me the trip got rather risky.

Once they woke up from their sleep,

And had their tablets, they were quite frisky.

They might not know what day of the week it was,

Or the meaning of my frightened laughter,

But in their condition, they were on a mission,

And they knew what they were after!

But once I’d barricaded the gangway,

The adventure turned out pleasant and nice,

They couldn’t remember what you’d told them,

And you had to say everything twice.

(I say – YOU HAD TO SAY EVERYTHING TWICE!!)

But I got caught up in the moment,

And my punishment I’ll have to take:

Tho’ the promenade’s a place for fun and games,

The wheel-chair races were a mistake.

In the end I should have known better,

I wouldn’t want you to think that they were abused.

After a whole day in their company,

I think it was me that was really confused!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Walking At Ephesus

Walking at Ephesus

It may be a simple effect of light, of the whiteness of rays

of the shimmering blinding sunshine flickering between columns

glittering particle sparkles in the crystalline texture of marble

but these careless tumbled liths appear restless, uneasy

heavy and broken, a jumbled jigsaw among the stunted grass

poking through rough gravel, rising up, re-assembling

resolving into many-godded  temples, triumphal arches, fountains, houses,

palaces, tombs and theatres, gateway carvings still fresh

features crisp and sharp, markings new-minted clear

no longer rough abandoned Roman ruins, nor the broken back of Byzantium

but a living space, a breathing place, where ghosts may freely roam

The death-heat of Anatolia, barely relieved by the coolness of water

or by fountains plashing into placid pools and baths

and the leafy colonnaded avenue of a tree-shaded Arcadian Way

its side-street walkways busy with the simple sound of feet, sandal-clad

people about their business, voices of slaves and masters

traders in the marketplace, and the client-busy brothel

clients inspecting the flesh on offer

the girls alert for someone new, perhaps an interesting stranger

a darkened sailor from the harbour-side

climbing the shining hill, far up into the heaving city

Nightscape

Nightscape

Our footsteps echo, bounce between hollowed empty buildings

and lose themselves again in deserted door-wells

deep darkened gaps, missing teeth in a broken smile

before being borne away by the bustling, scudding wind,

rattling metal shutters, matrix security grilles

the eyelids of unkempt, un-lit windows

of long-locked abandoned shops

The cold creeps into us, bitter chill biting finger-ends,

hurrying us along, despite ourselves, scurrying and scuttling rat-like

through unloved empty streets, cracked paving stones,

broken kerbs and gutters of dirty un-swept sidewalks,

pools of stagnant water snagging flapping sheets of greasy newspapers

hiding random dirt and rubbish

And night-time window-shows, bright shopping mall displays

flashing harsh allurements in a piercing clash of neon

reflected in the roadway sheen

shielding the shabbiness of pound stores and bookies,

amusement arcades and charity shops, cash-for-gold pawn-brokers

and unpopulated pubs and clubs

Yet somehow something stirs, unbidden flashes of former lively streets

nostalgia for what once was - no longer deaf, dumb and blind,

no longer worn and beaten down, but a town that lived and breathed

memories of a better past

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 7th May 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 7^th May 2017

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Devizes:

                                                  

1.      The Bard has left the village!  The departure of the bard for the nearby hell-hole that is Devizes provoked fiercely divided opinion in the village.  Whilst a devoted body of his acolytes went into deep mourning, weeping and wailing, and castigating their own bodies in despair and self-loathing, the large majority of the villagers held bonfire parties and celebrated deep into the night.  Large firework displays spelling out the words “Good Riddance” could be seen illuminating the night sky.  Either way – sheep may now safely graze, and vegetables can sleep soundly in their beds at night.

2.      In the depths of deepest Devizes meanwhile, people gathered in the market-place in their traditional Sunday ceremony of watching the traffic lights at the pedestrian crossing turn to amber, then red.  Shortly afterwards, following a harmonic salute, the lights turned both red and amber, then resumed their normal weekly colouring of green.  The crowd slowly dispersed before a few hardy souls mustered in front of the window of the delicatessen in order to watch the man in there operate the bacon-slicer.  And who says nothing ever happens in this town?

3.      For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-off.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Twenty-One Pounds

In Memoriam - Samson, a real bobby dazzler of a cat

Twenty-One Pounds

Twenty-one pounds

The figures stand out starkly

At the bottom of the column

Of other pounds and pence

An amount within an invoice

An account now rendered

Simple unadorned numbers

Clear in black and white

Just before the grand total

Twenty-one pounds

VAT inclusive

The final line of reckoning

The fee for services rendered

The burning of the body

Cremation of his small remains

Somewhere taken care of

That we shall never see

Twenty-one pounds

Seems not near enough

To reflect his energy

Nor what he meant to us

But that’s all there is of death

The summary of a struggle

A last and final line of life

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

A Corner Turned

An example of a poem written for one very special reason at one moment in time, but which now applies to a very different situation.

A Corner Turned

And now the thing is done -

The post that seemed so far away

That never would be reached

Has become a milestone passed along the way

Already long behind me

Fading into hazy distance

A cross-ways of sorts

A turning-point achieved

Breath exhaled and a sigh released

Then confident strides along

A new and different path

As it stretches out ahead

The course a changed one

The direction of travel

Along a new trajectory

Perhaps towards the same horizon

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Invaded

Invaded

It’s not a matter of consent

or permission to invade

to come within the confines of my body,

nor the medical necessity of timely intervention,

but the very intrusion itself

and the cutting of skin and tissue,

the breach of orifice

entrance by main force,

breaking from without to within,

external to internal,

the subtle insertion of pipes and wires

the transgression of needles and probes

the incursion of cameras and computers

to break into the inner cavities

among the blood and nerves and organs

that pump away unseen

to effect the running repairs

to keep me alive for another day,

to give me the breath to complain bitterly

of the pain of violation

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017