Missing person.

I want to report a missing person.

Tall.

Handsome.

18 years old.

Thick rimmed glasses.

White.

No fixed religion.

Answers to the name of Victor.

There’s more.

He was never the sort of boy

who would rush to the door

when I returned home from work

and grab me around the leg

screaming Daddy’s home

Daddy’s home.

And me picking him up

and swinging him around

and around

until he was nearly sick with love.

We didn’t have any of those

Hallmark card moments.

That wasn’t his style

but I knew he loved me

the only way he could

and I miss him.

I once wrote him a poem.

It went -

My heart has a tap

and if you turn it on

you will drown in love.

Now I’m the one drowning in love

clutching to a handful of memories.

When he was 5

he insisted on being taken

to a football match.

You’re too young I said

but he was determined.

Ok I said but football fans are rowdy

and when the home team score

the crowd will go off like a volcano.

He didn’t care

but when the stadium

eventually erupted

with a deafening tribal roar.

he was terrified.

I held him tight.

Really tight.

So he felt safe.

My big Dad’s arms

are still holding him tight

even though he’s 200 miles away.

I find myself wanting

to go to the door

to see if he’s returned

like you do when your cat

has gone missing.

You see -

for 18 years I’ve loved him.

Cared for him.

Held teaspoons

of food to his lips.

Kissed it better when

he grazed his knee.

Taught him how to walk and swim

and be a decent human being.

But I turned around

and he had simply walked away.

Off on a great adventure.

I want to be by his side

but I can’t.

This time he’s on his own.

Yes

I have the memories

but the adventure is all his

and I miss him.

Did I mention that he loves tennis?

He’s good at it too.

Somebody once told me

the love for your children is

profound.

More profound than the love

between man and wife.

You and your mother

father

sister or

brother.

A profound love.

It comes with being a Dad.

The silver bells that rang in my head

the first time I held him

are still ringing.

Oh and did I mention

he won the business prize

twice in a row at school?

I was there bursting with pride

but now I’m left with this

strange feeling inside.

It’s not pain but it’s close to it.

I can’t quite pin it down

but it’s there

in between the small rituals of the day.

The pain of missing him

like an aching elbow.

Tall.

Handsome.

18 years old.

Thick rimmed glasses.

White.

No fixed religion.

Answers to the name of Victor.

If you spot this missing person

please tell him –

I miss him.


The world’s greatest man.


I am not famous.

Somebody once said

I looked a bit like Alexi Sayle

but that’s it.

I have never been papped

by the paparazzi

or asked for my autograph

in the street.

I wish people would.

I’d like that

but they don’t.

To boost my self esteem

I sometimes imagine

I’m the world’s greatest man

but I’m not.

I am more like a flower

that has never bloomed.

A flower the sun gave up on

a long time ago.

But there has been

the occasional brush with fame.

Once in the early 80’s

while pissing

in a urinal

at Charing Cross Station

I felt a pair of eyes

burning into the side of my face.

As I glanced sideways

the man standing next to me

shouted…

Bloody hell.

It’s Alexi Sayle…

and started singing

‘ullo John got a new motor.

His favourite song.

20 years on

and I’m in Los Angeles

having dinner with

Muhammad Ali.

An event as unlikely to happen

as Tony Blair admitting

he was wrong about the Iraq war -

but it did happen.

I had written a commercial

about Muhammad Ali for Adidas.

It told the true childhood story

of how Cassius Clay

as he was then

got his brother

Rahman

to throw rocks at him.

Floating like a butterfly

Rahman never hit him once.

We spent 2 weeks

filming this story with Rahman

but as it turned out

acting wasn’t his thing

and his whole contribution

hit the cutting room floor.

Rahman didn’t seem to mind

happy living in the world’s

greatest shadow.

In between takes

Rahman told me his brother

was a prophet.

I had my doubts

but he insisted his brother

was not mortal.

His logic was simple.

When people meet my brother

they either burst into tears

or become so overwhelmed

with happiness

they beam with joy.

He can’t possibly be human.

When Muhammad Ali

finally turned up on set

Rahman was right.

The crew

made up of hairy arsed

lamp operators

grips and gaffers

not usually given

to emotional outpourings

either burst into tears

or were overcome with joy.

I was one of the beamers

grinning from ear to ear

at the world’s greatest man.

Gifted.

Precocious.

Quick on his feet.

From day one he was it.

Kissed by all the Gods.

An object lesson

in all that exists.

A role model.

Anatomy’s golden boy.

I bet Darwin wasn’t thinking of him

when he wrote down his theory.

A humanitarian.

A global citizen.

A Poet.

A man who has touched

countless lives

with his unwavering spirit.

A voice for those without a voice.

A man true to himself.

I am not like that.

It was said that

If you cut Muhammad Ali

he would shine light.

If you cut me

I would bleed.

He put the crew at ease

with a trick

levitating himself off the ground.

I wasn’t so sure that it was a trick

especially after what Rahman

had said.

I was told to introduce myself.

No I said.

Why not they said.

The whole idea makes me feel

like I’m coming down

with something very bad

I said.

I got nervous.

What if I introduced myself

and he wasn’t the world’s

greatest man?

What if he had the cold eyes

of a fake?

What if he turned out to be

like somebody I once knew

who said they were my friend

and then

when they thought

I wasn’t looking

stole all the biscuits

from my biscuit tin?

I was eventually thrust

towards Muhammad.

A mountain of a man.

I needn’t have worried.

He simply looked down at me

took my hand and said…

Bloody hell, it’s Alexi Sayle...

and started singing

‘ullo John got a new motor.

His favourite song…

It might have happened

but didn’t.

As he towered over me

I looked in to his eyes.

Eyes bigger than his fists.

Fists that stung like a bee

and said the first thing

that came into my head.

Do you fancy a spot of dinner?

I then I realised how gauche

that must have sounded.

Me

a mere soap bubble that vaguely

resembled Alexi Sayle

floating aimlessly in the air

inviting the world’s greatest man

out to dinner.

I wanted the ground

to swallow me up.

He thought about it.

Sure

he said.

I’d love to.

Devon ladybird 2017.

Devon Apples 2017.

Selfie 2016.

Devon beach 2016.

Devon garden 2016.

Autumn


I got into my magnificent

new

cream leather seated car

turned on the radio

and drove off

listening to Beethoven

or somebody

feeling good inside.


Good

from the tips

of my fingers

to my foot

on the accelerator.


I drove past the friendly

black doors of neighbours

20

21

22

23

24

25

feeling good.


So good

I even tooted at a stranger-

who gave me the finger.


I like this feeling of

feeling good.

It’s the feeling I had

when I was a child

but somewhere along

the way

somebody must have

mugged me

and stole my good feelings.


Recently though

slowly and cautiously

these feelings have returned

and I’m embracing them

holding them

loving them

like I would

if a large pair of fulsome breasts

had been thrust upon me.


When I was a young man

I wanted two things.

Girls and success.

They both proved

impossible to get.


The harder I tried to get the girls

the faster they ran away.

The more I wanted success

the more it kicked me in the teeth.


It was around this time

that feeling good

turned into feeling angry.


I became dissatisfied.

Impatient.

I disagreed with everyone.

I wanted to change everything

because everything was wrong.


I was angry.

I wanted success.

It consumed me.

There just wasn’t enough space

to feel good anymore.


With the girls

I tried to be cool

but I was about as cool

as a plastic laundry basket.


I began to hate myself.

I began to hate everything.


I hated people.

Dogs.

Babies.

Newspapers.

Museums.

Shakespeare.

American accents.

The colour mauve.

The countryside.

Essex.

Fried eggs.

Opera

The Beatles

and punk music.


Punk music should have been

an outlet for my anger

but punk

just made me more angry.


But it wasn’t all anger and hate.

There were a few good things

that had slipped under the barrier.


like

boozing

brooding

and work.


I worked hard

for success

and as I went on

with this pathetic pursuit

I realised I wasn’t alone.


We were all at it

busting our balls

for success.

Nudging

inching

cheating

to get an advantage.


Trying to avoid the rat poison

in the Knickerbocker Glory

we were all gobbling down.


Some of us were better at it

than others

and got success.

It felt good.

It was glamorous

and well paid

but then something changed.


I don’t quite know where

it happened on my time line -

when I had my stroke

perhaps

or maybe this life

had simply wore me out

but I started to relax.

I smoothed out.


The things I’d been so angry

about

didn’t seem to matter

any more.


I no longer felt the need

to be better

than the next person.

It was less important

to win.


I started to see more

and feel more.

The things I had

blocked out

and deemed superfluous

were now walking

through an open door.


I now find empty spaces

in my life.

A pure

soft space

to do nothing in

but watch a vapour trail

from a plane

gradually melt into the sky.


Yes

I lapse sometimes

but I’ve mentally shut down

my body and rebooted.


Even if things turn bad

I won’t feel any angry

just good.


If my boss calls me in

to fire me

I will thank him

for setting me free

and feel sorry for him

that he is still trapped.


It seems a new concept

has entered my life.


Something approaching peace

and it feels good -


like this morning

when I was lying in bed

with my wife.

She was asleep with her head

on my shoulder

and her arms wrapped around me.

It felt warm and safe.

It felt like love.


I listened to her breathing

in and out

like gentle waves

of cotton wool

and just being there with her

under the covers

felt good.

Really good.


I used to think

that if I gave in

to these good feelings

then somehow

the things

I felt good about

would disappear.

A disaster would happen

and I would end up

destitute on skid row

a broken man.


It’s dark now

and I catch my reflection

in the window.

A big shape of a face

sipping a glass of wine

and I like what I see.


Yes

it’s an odd face

but I don’t care.

I think I’m almost handsome

interesting even

and glad I’m not a young man

any more.


I smile

and he smiles back.

I like him

and I can tell

he likes me.

We raise our glass to each other.

Cheers. 

WHY

Stanley never asks why.

Stanley is autistic and

Why doesn’t exist.


Most children are sponges

they need to know why.

Stanley never asks why.


Is it because the world

is difficult enough

already?


More likely

he simply doesn’t know

how to ask questions.


Stanley is not curious.

Stanley never points like

an excited child would point


Shouting look Daddy look.

Stanley only points at

things that are familiar


a passing ice-cream van

a B&Q warehouse

the McDonalds sign.


Look Daddy look

the chip M.

The M for McDonalds

made out of chips.


Stanley never asks why.

If you never ask why

things will stay the same.

A strategy Stanley

seems to understand.


Stanley lives in a world

of DVDs, videos

and picture books.


He knows every

inch of dialogue,

every full stop

and comma


which he repeats over

and over and over

in his head.


When Stanley was younger

we read stories together.

We still do.


Stanley is now 15.

Each Peach Pear Plum is still

one of his favourites.


Ironically

it’s a story

about I Spy,

a game he has no interest

in playing.


Stanley never asks why.

So I will ask why instead.

Why him?


Why does he have to

struggle so much?

Why won’t the fog lift

so he can see more clearly?

Why?

Stanley has no interest in why.


He has no interest in money.

He has no interest in winning.

He doesn’t know how to lie.


Stanley never asks why

but he’s found the answer

to a better way

of being.

Original drawing for Bang Said The Gun logo.

20th June 2014.


Today I saw

two Tibetan monks

or Burmese 

but I’m no expert

sitting on the grass in St James park

dressed in saffron

silent

with only the sound of me

staring.

 

With heads

free from the clanking of anxiety

and self doubt

they seemed to be floating

in their own private bubble of peace.

 

When I was a young man

I thought peace and happiness

was for whimps and the weak

or for people who had simply given up.

 

I was restless

I wanted success.

I had a steam train inside of me.

I was unstoppable.

 

And then

while sitting in a garden in Devon

listening to a bird singing

the only song it knew

my steam train

finally ran out of steam

and I came to a shuddering

stop.

 

I stopped worrying

about trying to gain the advantage

and the man

who will eventually fire me.

 

When I am called into his office

to be given the bad news

I will say

that’s fantastic news

and enthusiastically shake him by the hand.

 

I was caught

and now I am free.

 

I will walk out into the sunshine

and the whole day will be mine.

I’ll look at the world

full of angry people

despondent 

cheated

disillusioned people

and I will sit quietly

like the two monks in their bubble

and watch -

because now

at last

I finally have the advantage.

 

Peace.

 

Of course the two monks in their bubble

already know about this stuff.

but they don’t go shouting about it from the roof tops-

you’ve got to find it out for yourself.

 

I found it for an egg timer full of time

in a garden in Devon.

The monks live it

every moment of the day.

 

Eventually

they got up and walked away

and as they passed by

one turned his head

towards me

and silently

smiled.

 

Now

I don’t want to make a big thing of this

but let’s just say that the smile

was as warm as the sunrise

from a Turner painting

and as peaceful as Pablo Cassals playing

Song for the birds on his cello

and leave it at that.

7th July 2014.

 

I was sitting in St James Park

in a deck chair.

£1.60 an hour.

 

It’s a good place to stop

and do nothing for a while

and at £1.60

very affordable.

 

A man was sitting next to me

on the grass with his laptop

watching a film

too tight to pay the £1.60.

 

He was well manicured

with silver grey hair

tie and jacket

and probably a civil servant

who worked in Whitehall.

 

His phone rang.

 

I’m here by the deck chairs

watching Julia Roberts

he said.

 

I wondered who might turn up.

A work colleague perhaps?

The woman

he was having an affair with?

 

I was wrong on both counts.

It was his gay lover.

Younger

more good looking

but less manicured.

 

They kissed.

 

Just a quick peck

in case they were seen

and then his lover

spread out a picnic.

 

The grey man took out

a punnet of strawberries

and chose one.

He held it gently between his fingers

and looked at it

with wide

doting eyes

as if the strawberry was

a living breathing hunking

Adonis.

 

There was real sexual tension

between the grey man and the strawberry

and I wondered if it was really possible

to have a crush

on a piece of fruit.

 

Could a sensuous looking banana 

turn you on?

or a particularly fleshy peach?

 

Would it be wrong to whisper

Je t’aime

Je t’aime

into the ear of a cute looking raspberry?

 

The more I thought about it

the more an innocent strawberry

became a metaphor

for gay sex

and if a strawberry

was a metaphor for gay sex

what was the metaphor for

straight sex?

Rhubarb and custard?

 

The grey man carried on

swooning over the strawberry

and then suddenly

inexplicably

placed it back in to the carton

as if  Adonis had unexpectedly

farted.

 

With the magic gone

the grey man turned his attentions

to a packet of

cheese and onion crisps

 

and started to munch.

 

19th July 2014.


I live in

a quiet

leafy

middle class

polite

square.

 

But not today.

 

Parked outside my house

was a drunk

slumped on a mobility scooter

drinking a can of Special Brew.

 

He was in his late 50’s

spoke with a slurred

Mancunian accent

and was about

as out of place

as a Nun in a brothel.

 

As I unchained my bike

from the railings

he started a conversation.

 

That’s the best way

to get around London

he slurred.

 

You don’t seem to be doing

too badly yourself

I said

but then I noticed

he had crashed his vehicle

into the kerb

and had one wheel up on

the pavement.

 

What are you doing here?

I said

spoiling our square

except I didn’t add that bit.

 

I fell from

Dog Star Cirrhosis

he said -

noting that it’s quite hard

to say Cirrhosis

when you are drunk.

 

I got on my bike and cycled off.

He belched and wished me

a good day.

 

As I travelled to work

I though about the man

who fell from

Dog Star Cirrhosis

and into a

quiet

leafy

middle class

polite

square

and wondered why

I was so prejudiced

against him

getting drunk in my square

and not in some dark alley way

that stank of piss and no hope.

 

But that’s the trouble with living

in a middle class neighbourhood -

you start thinking

middle class bullshit. 

8th August 2014.


I ordered sea bass

and the waiter delivered it.


The sea bass lay in it’s juices

on a white plate

and I

with my juices still inside of me

sat on a comfy green velvet chair.


We both stared at each other.

Me with two eyes

and the fish with one.


But even with his one beady eye

I could tell he pitied me

sitting in this restaurant

privileged

surrounded by richness and success

and not even that hungry.


It’s the sort of restaurant

that’s hard to book a table in

unless you’re a somebody.


I’m a nobody

but my guest is a somebody

so here I am

sitting at the table

being pitied by a sea bass.


We carried on staring at each other

and I started to pity the fish in return

for being plucked from the sea

and put on this plate

with a sprig of watercress

for company.


I told a story

about the time I took my Mum and Dad

to the Savoy for dinner.


They hated it

felt uncomfortable

worried about the price of the starter

and how my Mum refused to take her coat off

in case somebody stole it.


My lunch date laughed

but the fish remained unimpressed.


It just lay there

a rack of bones

head still intact

and his one beady eye still looking at me

feeling sorry for me

sitting in this restaurant

eating expensive food

while millions

were starving in the world.

The waiter brought the bill.


I checked to see if retribution had been added.

20th September 2014.


A bricklayer lays bricks.

A plumber fixes plumbing.

A poet stares out of the window

and writes down what he sees.

 

I saw a conker.

A shiny new conker

the colour of deep mahogany.

I wrote it down

and that was that.

 

What more was there to say

about the conker

other than - it was a conker

shiny and new

and the colour of mahogany.

The end.

 

Another poem going nowhere -

but suddenly

like Concorde breaking the sound barrier

I was catapulted back to boyhood

throwing sticks at a tree

trying to knock down conkers

and hoping upon hope

that I would find a champion conker

that would beat all other conkers

in a hard fought conker duels.

 

And then I remembered

how much I hated playing conkers.

Conkers hurt knuckles.

Some cheats even

pickled their conkers in vinegar

to make them harder.

 

The battles were bruising

knuckles were sore

and after one particularly

painful bout with a sixer

I went home

and  gave my champion conker

to my Mum as a gift.

 

She gave me the gift of life

and showed me light.

 

I gave her a conker.

 

She gave me love

hot dinners

knitted jumpers to keep me warm

and a chocolate cake

in the shape of a fort for my birthday.

 

I gave her a conker.

 

She gave me a beating heart

Strong legs arms bones teeth

and a nose to smell the sweet things in life

and eyes to breathe in the world.

 

I gave her a conker.

 

She nursed me when I was sick

and kissed it better when I fell over.

 

I gave her a conker.

 

What price is a Mothers love?

 

For me it was a conker.

She didn’t complain

and was gracious enough not to mention

that a conker on a piece of string

was scant recompense

for her labour of love.

 

She simply carried on

Loving and giving.

Loving and giving.

Loving and giving.

MIDDLECLASS


I splashed my face
with cold water
and looked at my
middle class mug
in my middle class mirror
in my middle class bathroom.
I looked exhausted.
Not from life
or work
but from being middle class.
Being middle class is so exhausting.
I was from working class stock
with working class roots.
There’s so much less to worry about.
We didn’t worry about education.
We didn’t bother with lessons.
We dicked around.
We didn’t want to be a teachers pet.
I regret this bit
the not bothering to learn bit
but that’s how education worked
for the working class.
We didn’t worry about careers.
The career advisor
advised me to work on the production line
at Fords in Dagenham.
Anything else
was way above my station.
I was working class.
I knew my place
and my place was on the production line
at Fords in Dagenham.
My parents never worried
about negative equity.
We lived in a Council house
on a council estate
with other working class families.
We were comfotable.
Conversation was kept to a minimum.
Topics were always small.
We were working class
we didn’t need to express ourselves.
We read the small newspapers
not the big ones.
The big papers were full of world issues.
It’s not that world issues were above us
we just prefered them to be smaller.
We didn’t worry about art
the theatre
opera
Radio 3
Radio 4
Wimbledon.
We didn’t worry about socialising.
We never had dinner parties
or BBQ’s.
We never even spoke to the neighbours.
We kept ourselves to ourselves.
We were working class.
We worked hard.
We never went to restaurants.
We didn’t know a Cabernet Sauvignon
from our working class elbow.
When I was a teenager
out on a Friday night
I just pulled a bird
and birds liked to be pulled.
It never occurred to me
that beyond birds
there were women
with independent minds.
We didn’t worry about foreign holidays
we went to Pontins
and it was brilliant.
They were the happiest days of my life.
Then somebody said
holiday camps are naff
and I began to question it.
I began to question everything about
being working class.
My working class roots withered and died.
The middle class scene shifters arrived
and changed the setting.
I now needed to consume culture.
Go to art galleries
the theatre
the opera.
I now like poetry for Christ sake.
I go to art house cinemas.
I buy a big paper at the weekend
and spend all week reading it
have conversations about
the Eurozone
spend fortunes in restaurants
and I am not fazed by Sauvignon blanc.
I have travelled the world beyond Dagenham.
I have an ISA.
I own Le Creuset pots and pans
and haven’t pulled a bird in years.
Being middle class
I visited a museum
to see an exhibition about
Himalayan cultural diversity.
it was crammed
with interesting Tibetan artefacts.
I wasn’t interested in any of them.
A bone crushing tiredness
fell over me
and I was left feeling like
a car with a flat battery.
This is what it’s like being middle class.
Maybe I should have worked
on the production line at Fords. 

CRISP ENCOUNTER


Oh Tyrrell

I love you so much.

Oh Walker

I love you too

but we are so very different

I fear we are not destined

to be together.

But Tyrrell

what could possibly tear us apart?

We are from the same earth,

we are watered by the same rain,

we are nurtured by the same sun.

We are spuds.

Good,

honest

spuds.

Oh Walker.

Poor

dear Walker.

Let me explain.

You are found in Newsagents.

I am found in Waitrose.

You are devoured

by common people

who are obese.

I am served in bowls

at social gatherings

and nibbled on by

people of discernment.

You are cheese and onion.

I am marinated anchoive

and Swiss cheese fondue flavour.

Your friends are

Monster Munch

Cheesey Wotsits

and Quavers.

My friends are

root vegetable chips

beetroot chips

and parsnip chips.

You live in a grab bag.

I live in seductive

see through packaging…

I could go on.

No please don’t

Tyrrell.

I can see it’s hopeless.

Shall we just say goodbye then?

Yes

it’s for the best.

Goodbye snob.

Goodbye slob.

SMART ARSE

 

I went to an art class

And drew a conclusion

That most people there

Had no imagination

 

They simply drew

What they knew

 

I drew a blank

 

And when the teacher

Pointed out

The starkness

Of my markless

Piece of paper

I said

 

I was drawing breath

A Week in the Life of Victor


You were dancing

in Mum’s tum.

I saw your kicks

both of us not sure

what to expect

as we headed for the unknown.

 

Today is Wednesday

and you are 14

and like your breakfast egg

you are sunny side up.

 

Yesterday was Tuesday

and you were 9

standing on the doorstep

in your new school uniform

with room to grow.

 

On Monday

you were 5

and 30,000 fans erupted

with ear splitting appreciation

as West Ham scored a goal.

I held you tight.

 

On Sunday

you were 2

catching balls

and dancing around the kitchen

like Billy Elliot.

You are still dancing -

racket in hand.

 

On Saturday

14 years ago

the midwife said

that’s lucky

and I panicked

that you had nearly died.

He’s still in his sac

she said

the waters haven’t broken

that’s rare that is -

he’s been born lucky.

Well, I said,

he’s got me as his Dad

of course he’s lucky.

So from Mum

to midwife

to me

I held you

for the first time.

A rare orchid

as white as winter

and I looked into your

beautiful eyes

as big as the sky

and counted your toes

and wished you all the

music in the world

for you to dance

your own dance.

 

Tomorrow is Thursday.

You will shine brightly

and I will say

stop

slow down

slow

slow

slow

so I can catch my breath

hug every new memory

and say how much

I love you.

This Jerusalem.


We crawled out of the ooze

And crept like shadows

through mists and time

to a green and pleasant land

and built this Jerusalem.


Lampposts pose like dark bones

light up corridors of concrete

where red sharks swim

swallowing people asleep

with their eyes wide open.

 

In the sweat down below

it’s as busy as ant hills

with wriggling one eyed worms

and people throw themselves off bridges.

 

Men go to the back streets of Soho

and wait in line to be whipped

upstairs in the boom boom room.

 

Down piss alley

a man with an imitation gun

intimidates a pregnant woman

just for fun.

 

Early morning sun

spills gold across the city

casting a rich glow

across the faces of financiers

sitting in their glass castles

making money

out of greed and folly.

 

Neon signs flash.

Cash registers bleep

to the beat of desire.

Greed and folly.

 

An abandoned mattress

with it’s springs spewing out

like rusty guts

rots on the corner of Park Lane.

 

There is no nightingale

singing in Berkley Square.

There never was.

 

And you.

You are the one who plants trees.

You are the one who sees

rainbows.

 

On a hot August night

smeared with mud from the past

they came in their dozens

with burning bows

and gold trainers

shifting destruction

through broken windows

and setting chariots on fire.

 

Moonlit pirates

hang like earrings made of skulls.

The night time frenzy

is stirred with a large spoon

and the siren cacophony

cuts into your head.

 

In burnt out buildings

all sense of purpose drifts

like smoke into thin air.

 

I write these words

because they are true.

And you.

You are the one who plants trees.

You are the one who sees

rainbows.

A SHORT POEM

Small talk

Small walk

Small scale

Small world

Itzy bitzy

Teeny weeny

Smalls

From M&S

Which stands for

Micro and scopic

Small print

Small wonder

Small pox

Smallbone kitchen

Small fries

Small beer

And small cans

Of 2 up

From the mini bar

If a car

is a penis extention

Make mine a mini

Minimum

Minidad

Mini chedders

Mini mouse

Mini house

Mini roudabout

Mini golf is the only golf

I’m tall enough for

Mini ha ha

Mini break

Minneapolis

Martini weenies

Stirred with a short straw

Short cake

Short bread

Short changed

Short tempered

Short sighted

Short comings

Even my short and curlies are shorter than most

In short

I’ve been taken short

I’m a short story

A short measure

God has given me a short back and sides

Climb every molehill

Still

There is a small consolation

For the small man

BIG

Is a very small word