Poems by Jacks (John Brown)

The old box
Whatever is on the old box
It don't matter,
Some people just sit there
Their eyes getting fatter;
Their brains being dulled
By the flickering screen,
By the adverts that urge them
To buy what they've seen;
They worship their telly
And won't move an inch;
If the house caught on fire
Well I doubt if they'd flinch.

It's a puzzle to me
How it has so much power
To keep people glued to it
Hour after hour;
Film upon film and then
Soap after soap,
With a life such as that
I don't think I could cope;
Like the old saying goes:
'They'll end up with square eyes;'
And to me it will be
No great loss, or surprise.

Some programmes can teach
I admit that it's true;
But of excellent ones
There are only a few;
Still, if children can learn
As they sit there and drool,
It's a start, 'cause they learn
Very little at school;
Had it not been invented
Not a soul would have cared;
But it was,
And the blame lies with John Logie Baird.

So very true, and that's one of the reasons I haven't had a TV since 2010. What little TV I do watch, I watch on ITVX or BBC iPlayer, but there are only three programmes in total that I watch regularly. Very little else interests me so, instead, I make a study and learn about certain things to keep my brain active.

More like this please. Both poems of yours that I've read so far are very entertaining.

Thanks Mollie. I have many more, so watch out for 'em.

HOW SLOW
How slow the time passes
On hot summer days,
How heavy the air,
And the heat, and the haze.

How slow the sun's creeping
In reaching for noon,
How long now the day-time
Belonging to June.

How dry lies the earth
In the farmer's old hands,
How slow plod the herds
As they stroll off his land.

How sweet the bird sings
In the old apple tree,
How slow the leaves falling
O'er pathway and lea.

How far the bell tolls
Over green evening fields,
How close now the haymakers'
Singing and reels.

How slow the time passes
In twilight's night shade,
How slow fell the footsteps
True lovers once made.

By John Brown March 1995.

Another lovely one. I've never really been into Keats, Browning, Shelley or the others, but I do enjoy "home grown" poems like yours. You know, it might be a good idea if you do this symbol at the bottom of your poems.

© John Brown
Date written

I would never plageurise anyone else's work, but there are some unscrupulous people on the internet, and I don't mean here as nobody here would either, but the internet is a big place.

© John Brown
Date written

Thanks again Mollie. Good idea . . . if I could work out where to find the copyright symbol ?

Jacks!

Jacks, just copy and paste mine into Word, using your own name as I've shown, then add the date at the bottom of each poem you write. Then just save in Word as COPYRIGHT, or SYMBOL, whatever you want to call it.

Or, go to a blank page in Word, click on Insert at the top and a list will drop down with the word Symbol on it. Scroll through there till you find it, and save it for next time you need it.

For the life of me I can't remember how to do it on the keyboard now, but I've just copied and pasted that from some stuff I wrote years ago.

Tonker's hand is four of a kind ,
a mighty hand to hold.
and Jack is good in poet land
but his cards, he needs to fold,

cos Mollie is my true love
and she will not surrender
to a smooth writing pen push
to a valentines day offender,

tomplum 14/2/2025

Thanks Mollie, you're a genius.

Aw Jacks, don't make me blush! I'm just happy to help someone for a change, as the nice folk on here have helped me on a few occasions when I've been stumped over something.

Tom, yer as daft as Tonker sometimes!

(Comment removed because it broke the rules)

TONKER, NO! Don't spoil Jacks' thread.

Mollie, why not just put a link on to his poems site?

John's Poems by the Bagful !

Tonker: I don't use that site anymore, I use one called 'Poem Hunter' Here's a link to my poems on there. https://www.poemhunter.com/john-carter-brown/

P.S. my name on there is John Carter Brown.

John Carter Brown Poem Hunter

Thanks First Mate. I don't know how to do 'proper' links !

NODDING OFF

I sit enveloped in my chair,
My limbs relaxed, my work is done;
The radio is droning low,
My eyes are heavy as a ton.
I know the room is occupied,
But sorting voices is a strain;
A ghostly figure passes by,
I think I'm nodding off again.

I'm wavering between two worlds,
One cold and clear, the other warm
And filled with floating images,
Devoid of bone or flesh or form.
I sense a slowly sliding movement,
Hear again that far refrain;
My head falls from it's finger perch
Because I'm nodding off again.

My body is superfluous,
And all control I had is lost;
Opposing me, a mental bridge,
Before I know it I have crossed
Into another world, quite real,
With time a useless thing to keep;
I've left behind all earthly ties,
I've lost the fight and gone to sleep.

© John Brown
May 1995

nice one Jacks

[url=https://www.poemhunter.com/john-carter-brown/]John Carter Brown Poems[/url

You need another bracket like this ] on the end to make it link

Thanks for that First Rate, and I'm glad you like the poem.

Yep, I like that one as well, Jacks.

By the way Jacks. I've remember how to do the copyright sign on the keyboard. It's Ctrl, Alt, Insert, C. It will only work in Word though.

Hi Mollie. That's why it didn't work when I tried that then !

Yes, it was only when I realised that I only learned how to do it when I was writing my stories, which wasn't a problem in Word. Don't know why it doesn't work on here though, and I'm not techy enough to figure it out.

You write short stories. Are they short enough to post on here, or not?

WHAT YOU SAY

You say you'll be with me
Come even the end;
You say you will always be
Always my friend;
You say that we two
All through time have to spend
Togetherness . . .
That's what you say.

You say we are one
Even though we're a pair;
You say that you understand
Always, and care;
You say that we one
Made a bond that we'll share
Togetherness . . .
That's what you say.

You say in your hope
That you never will bend;
You say that you know
And need never pretend;
You say that our breath
Even death cannot end our
Togetherness . . .
That's what you say.

© John Brown
May 1995

Sorry for the delayed reply, but I only come on here in the evenings.

The stories I mentioned aren’t individual ones per se, but actually chapters about the same potty old man and his well-to-do lady friend and the daft things he gets up to, and each chapter is between 7 and 12 A4 pages long, going from Chapter 1 - 200, so not suitable for this forum.

That's a same Mollie. but it is what it is as they say.

Jacks, "What You Say" is an interesting poem, but I have a question. Should there be emphasis on the word "you?" "That's What YOU Say" (in anger, frustration)?

If that be the case, then it comes from sadness, but I'm not sure how to interpret it.

I have also written some comical poems - well - monologues really, but I won't put them on the forum at the moment whilst you have yours on the go, otherwise folk will think I'm trying to outdo you, which would not be the case as they're totally different to yours. Another time perhaps.

Mollie: Well, the poem was written a long time ago now,and, obviously, I didn't feel the need for any emphasis on the word 'You' at the time. I think I wanted to convey just a feeling of uncertainty really. I've written a couple of other poems that also seem no have no real resolution. Reading this poem now, I just feel that the 'writer' is almost imploring his 'friend' , and uncertain about their joint relationship, and if that is the case then it's a sad poem. I'm only Secondary School educated Mollie, and can't explain it any better.

I was Secondary School educated as well, Jacks. Nothing wrong with that.

I apologise for putting you on the spot like that, but you have explained very well. Putting the emphasis on YOU sort of paints the picture that the writer is disappointed with the outcome of the relationship - a sort of feeling that what he/she was being told was the truth, and it proved not to be in the end.

No apology needed Mollie. I'll make my next poem one of a humorous nature.

I like a nice mixture. All my monologues are the comical kind, so I'll look forward to reading your next poem.

A partly true poem I wrote at the expense of my brother.

FRANK'S LUMP

Our Frank's got a lump on his head,
He says it's his brains coming out;
Which I don't believe for a moment,
It's a rumour he's putting about.

He'd have us believe he's a genius,
He really believes it I think;
I know he's no fool, but come on now,
He must think we're green and not pink.

Just because he went on to a grammar school,
And his O levels reach to the roof,
It could have been mostly good luck, 'cos
Let's face it no system's foolproof.

And anyway what's good about welding ?
(His trade for a number of years)
He tells us he made fine machinery,
But it could have been railings or spears !

Then the worst thing of all it did happen :
They upped and they made him a boss;
Good news for the board of directors,
For the welders, a grief and a loss.

Now he strolls round the room giving orders
With his whip, and I bet he can crack it ;
With his white-collar duds and accessories,
With his lump, and his shining white jacket !

© John Brown
September 1994.

I knew your Frank in our late teens
a plater and welder in't day,
At night he would don on his blue jeans
and play rock n roll after tey.

He'd practice with a guy from his work place,
A like minded great Beatle fan.
They would practice their favorite music
and tour the pubs in a van,

I have't seen Frank since those good times
because of the rounds that I ventured
So I'm happy to learn from thread,
Franks well . cept for the lump on his head,,

Well said tomplum. I like it.

Oh Jacks, I really did like that one very much.

Yours too, Tom.

Thanks Mollie

Thanks Mollie and , There's an amazing coincidence here because. I've actually met Jacks and spoke to him a few years ago, I was walking past his house and Jacks was in his front garden watering his plants, I recognised who I thought was Frank and stopped to say hello, He explained he was not Frank but his brother, Its a small world,

Indeed it is Tom, and what makes both your poems so special is because you both know the person that you write about, and that's also what makes them amusing. When someone writes about someone in particular because of personal knowledge, it makes the poem more realistic; but a lot of thought also has to go into writing things on a different subject, personal knowledge or not.

Tom, he was a fake Frank!

Back in the day, frank was a George Harrison Look a like , shoulder length hair, a tash and smooked like a foundry chimney and Jacks has the same looks but, as you know, mens hair goes thin and grey , Jacks is the same build , looks and good hair albeit grey for his time of life so. the resemblance twitched my curious nerve,

tomplum: I'm going balder by the minute now, and look more like me Dad every day! I'm too embarrassed to change my picture, such is the loss of hair. Oh well!

I know that feeling Jacks, looking in the mirror and seeing my dad, So I took to the modern style, dubbers on the bare blade, Its good in summer with the warm air and sunlight but, Now I wear a bob cap 24/7,

Don't be daft you two. There's nothing wrong with a completely bald head. It's when men only have eight strands left and try to do a comb-over, or have just a thin rim around their heads - that's silly.

Back to poems.

tomplum (will just tom do?) Well, that's us told then (ha ha)

Yes Jacks, Tom is fine,

wear one of these

That would solve the problem I suppose

One of my fayourite poems

THE TALE OF THOMAS FELL
Here is a tale that I will tell
About a boy called Thomas Fell,
And of the girl he loved so well,
His dearest darling Jenny.
He knew her from his childhood days,
He knew her thoughts, he knew her ways,
He lived in love's romantic haze,
But didn't have a penny.

To win her was his only thought,
So money therefore must be sought,
And then the flowers could be bought
And Jenny would be happy.
He explored every avenue,
And searched from here to Timbuktu,
His time was short and Tommy knew
He'd have to make it snappy.

If he should fail to raise the cash,
His hopes and dreams would all be dashed:
His foe would be in like a flash,
His morals were so shoddy.
'That other boy who's called Andrew,
He says he loves my Jenny too;
He says he'll take her to the zoo,
Hu . . . over my dead body !'

'If I see him I'm telling you
I'll beat him 'til he's black and blue;
His love for Jenny can't be true
He's nothing but a fake.
I've always loved her, always will,
I'd fight for her, I'd even kill;
I'll get that bunch of daffodils
No matter what it takes.'

A penny here, a penny there,
He walked to school to save the fare,
At last he had the money there,
Safe in his hiding place.
It meant so much, this grand surprise,
He longed to see, in Jenny's eyes,
Reward for all his enterprise :
A smile upon her face.

The flowers looked so very grand,
He placed them gently in her hands,
And told her of his wedding plans,
Then held her close and kissed her.
His eyes were moist and filled with wonder,
But Jenny's heart was rent asunder :
'Oh Tom, you've made an awful blunder,
You can't . . . 'cause I'm your sister !'

© John Brown
Sept 1994

Aw John! I love that one. I so hoped it would be a happy ending for him but, alas, it was his sister he loved; little realising that he could never marry her. I seem to recall having similar feelings about my brother - but I was only about five years old at the time.

Thanks for your interest in my poems Mollie, and I'm glad you liked this little tale.

You're very welcome.

I was never into poetry at school because I found it boring. Then, when I was writing my stories, I inadvertently realised that some of my male character's sentences tended to rhyme a little bit; not in any kind of classical way, but out of silliness; so I started to have a go at making up rhyming stories within stories, around some of the other characters. Trouble is with me, I can only do comical rhymes.

Nothing wrong with comical rhymes Mollie. I'd say a good 75% of mine have a level of humour about them. Let me know if you get fed up with me posting more.

Keep posting them Jacks. I love the Tale of Thomas Fell.

A poem written after saving a bee.
I was working on my allotment at the time.
And he had somehow fallen into a water-but.


I Saved From Death

I saved, from death, a bee today
sure drowning was it's fate;
the clock was quickly ticking
and soon 'twould be too late.

The creature floated helplessly,
as I did chance arrive;
just seconds from oblivion,
and loss to mother hive.

I lifted him so gently
to ease his suffering,
so close to death he didn't
even own the will to sting.

I laid him down upon the ground
and watched him all the while,
then saw a tiny movement, and
my face began to smile.

So soon did he recover that
I marvelled at the show
of brave determination
to live, and not let go.

And so my bee pulled through,
then slowly buzzed along his way -
and I, with spirits lifted,
continued with my day.

© John Brown
2015

hollyH. Thank you very much for your comment.

LOL! I don't believe it. I also wrote a poem about a bee. I called it A Bumbling Bee!

John, don't stop posting these great poems. They are so interesting and bring me lots of enjoyment reading them.

I'm really pleased that you like my stuff Mollie. I shall keep posting more. A Bumbling Bee sounds like it might be good.

The difference between yours and mine, apart from content of course, is that all mine are written in Wigan dialect.

on about Bees,
I once bought a pet bee,
it was in a pet shop window
I asked how much it would be.
and the mon in the shop,
said, its free,

but only to thee

Mollie Hem a Wiggin Gem,
sowd pegs on a street in Pem
It turned out she had a sister
who ran off with a mister
but she can't remember when

Mollie an indian, a Wiggin Gem,
sowd pegs on a street in Pem
It turned out she had a sister
who ran off with a mister,
but she can't remember when
The last time she paid her TV license

Basil, what did you say?

I'M NOT AN APE MAN

'Mankind has descended from monkeys'
I heard on the telly last week;
The scientists say that it's certain,
I say that I think they've a cheek.

Just because our design is so similar
To monkeys and apes and baboons;
I don't reckon those chimps in the advert'
Have a clue what to do with those spoons.

I'm not fooled by their lovable antics,
And the 'smiles' that play on their lips;
It's an insult to dress them like humans,
And force them to drink P.G. tips.

We sit them in front of a mirror
Like a schoolmaster would do a dunce,
Then say: 'yes they've got self awareness'
If they do not attack it at once.

If it's true we're descended from monkeys
Why is it there's some of them left,
Why is it there's still some evolving
And the world isn't monkey bereft ?

No, my mind is made up on the matter,
And it wasn't made up in a tree;
Let the scientist say what he wants to,
But he won't make a monkey of me !


© John Brown
1996

Love it.

Thanks Mollie.

Coughs and sneezes...spread diseases...

Our local village bobby
Made a verse to entertain
I hope he knows that Covid
is here to remain

So if you cough and sneeze a lot
stay home and go to bed
cos the folks with little immunity
Might sneeze and wake up dead

Tom I wrote a song called 'Covid Blues'

JAMES CRAWFORD-KING JUNIOR

James Crawford-King junior esquire
The man with a price on his head,
Was a lone desperado from Texas
And was wanted, living or dead.

A runner of guns and a killer
A thief, and a gambler of note;
A mean looking dude in his leathers,
With a stetson tied under his throat.

Sheriff Cody had sworn he would find him
For the innocent lives that he took;
This Crawford-King junior esquire
Who had slung both his guns and his hook.

Away o'er the dry golden prairies
He'd gone, so the sheriff was told;
So he headed that way with his posse,
But the trail was now hopelessly cold.

As cold as the night that descended
On Cody, his horse and his men;
But justice called loudly for vengeance
So at daybreak they rode out again.

Now El -Paso was quietly sitting
In the warm morning glow of the sun;
Knowing nothing of Crawford-King junior
Or the terrible deeds he had done.

There the lone desperado lay sleeping
With his colt 45 by his side;
Back in Texas the wives of his victims
Were weeping for those who had died.

Sheriff Cody burst into the bedroom
Just as Jimmy was lifting his head;
And the lead from the lawman's revolver
Made sure that King junior was dead.

Then the blue acrid smoke slowly lifted
To find things not quite what they seem:
I'd dropped off the lousy top bunk-bed,
And James Crawford-King junior . . .a dream !


© John Brown
1996

another good poem Jacks and talkin' about blues,
I bought a shed from Screwfix
and that gave me dem blues for sure

Nice one Tom. Watch out Clapton.

Ha Ha, you've got him worried, He just phoned and said , " Hi Tom stop or I'm gonna kick your ass and cut you up"
like i did in this video

IDIOTIC IDIOM

The Anglo-Saxon idiom
Is a tax upon the brain
I mean, just what have cats and dogs
To do with heavy rain ?
And if I'd like a cup of tea
(As often is my wish)
No problem, 'cause our kettle's
Never yet been full of fish.

Are people really 'all at sea'
When troubles they are braving ?
And should men be committed
Just for laying crazy-paving ?
You may have a funny feeling
Which can't be laughed about,
And how come something without legs,
Like money, can run out ?

Yes English, to a foreign ear
Must seem a puzzling lingo,
And by the way, what kind of house
Do people win at bingo ?
And don't go ringing 9 9 9
You'll only seem a liar
If adversaries now get on
Just like a house on fire.

I could go 'harping on'
At least until my pen 'ran out'
But you would get 'dog tired'
I haven't got the slightest doubt;
Suffice to say
This idiotic idiom on show
Is peculiarly English,
Well wouldn't you just know.

© John Brown
1996.

Jacks, sorry to have not been around for a few days, but I've just read your last two poems.

Love the cowboy one very much, and the Idiotic Idiom is inspired and so true, but I wonder how many people know what a fish kettle is.

No apology needed mollie. Welcome back. As for the 'fish kettle' It would be interesting to know how many (younger people especially) know what I'm referring to.

Not many, I shouldn't wonder. They're not well known to most, and not used by many.

NODDING OFF

I sit enveloped in my chair,
My limbs relaxed, my work is done;
The radio is droning low,
My eyes are heavy as a ton.
I know the room is occupied,
But sorting voices is a strain;
A ghostly figure passes by,
I think I'm nodding off again.

I'm wavering between two worlds,
One cold and clear, the other warm
And filled with floating images,
Devoid of bone or flesh or form.
I sense a slowly sliding movement,
Hear again that far refrain;
My head falls from it's finger perch
Because I'm nodding off again.

My body is superfluous,
And all control I had is lost;
Opposing me, a mental bridge,
Before I know it I have crossed
Into another world, quite real,
With time a useless thing to keep;
I've left behind all earthly ties,
I've lost the fight and gone to sleep.

© John Brown
1995

Oops! I've already posted this one. . .Duuu!

THE LOTTERY MONSTER

Get your money out people
And rattle your cash
Get along to the ticket-booth
Go have a bash;
Your pounds and your pennies
I'm longing to see
I'm the Lottery monster
So listen to me.

The Lottery monster
He has to be fed
He lives on cold cash
Just as you live on bread;
So throw any caution you had
To the wind
Your jackpotted dreams
To six numbers are pinned.

The holiday money
You keep in that tin
Could net you ten million
'Cause SOMEONE must win;
So search out your cash
In your jackets and jeans
Your partner can diet
The kids can eat beans.

Look it isn't a crime
So go on, have a flutter
Never mind that it's needed
For bread and for butter;
Reduce all the chatting
You do on the 'phone
Let the fire go out
And then go get a loan.

See according to all of
The facts and the data
You're bound to start winning . . .
Sooner or later;
And there's always next week
If your numbers weren't right
But I won't be skint
On a Saturday night.

© John Brown
1996.

Thank you Mr First Mate. Looks like you liked it.

Another good one.

I've liked all of your poems, John. Have you ever thought of having them published into book form? They're definitely good enough.

Hi Mollie. I have had one of my poems published by one of the smaller, less well known, publishers. I'm not sure if it even exists now, but it is/was a publisher that relies on the poet's ego, and of course he/she wants to see their poem in print. Once accepted for inclusion into their poetry compilation you are then offered the chance to buy a copy. This was in the mid nineties, and the book cost me about £11 as I recall. Pretty expensive really, but I learned my lesson. Having a book 'of my own work only', published by a reputable publisher is not something I can be bothered with to be honest. I do have all my poems on a website called 'Poemhunter' though if you feel like visiting it. My name on there is John Carter Brown.

Here's a link. https://www.poemhunter.com/john-carter-brown/

I can understand your reticence, John. If you remember, First Mate posted the link to your other poetry section, but unfortunately, it was hard to read because of the intrusive ads so please, put them here where they can be read in peace, along with your Spelling poem.

When I was writing my stories, I thought about having them published and sent chapters to various northern publishers but, the problem with them was, because they were written in dialect, they didn’t think they would be suitable “at that time”, even though they said they loved them and thought they were really funny. Ah well.

Ah well indeed Mollie. I'm quite happy to just keep posting on here. If this thread gets too long though, I may have to start another . . . Vol 2 as it were.

Just keep posting in here. That way, those of us who love to read them it will stay higher up on the board, rather than disappearing into the wild blue yonder.

I HAVEN'T GOT A DAUGHTER

I haven't got a daughter
I've got a telly-blob;
Ping-pong balls instead of eyes
Crisps stuck in her gob;
Her brain on auto-pilot
That strange hypnotic stare;
Laughing at the advert's
While slouching in her chair.

The technicolour images
All battering her senses
De-sensitised this girl of mine
And shattered her defences;
Now television rules O.K.
She's got remote control;
Her world, a 24 inch screen
Sucking at her soul.

Flicking through the channels
And chewing at her nails,
The goggle-box possesses her,
It's power never fails;
An electronic baby-sitter
Playing all the day,
And on into the dead of night
She wastes her life away.

I haven't got a daughter
I lost her long ago
To Brookside and Eastenders,
And every other show;
But wait ! I've got her back again
I recognize that whining:
I never thought a power-cut
Could have a silver lining !

© John Brown
1996.

Simple solution to that. Get rid of the goggle-box like I did 14 years ago.

That would do the trick alright

John. That daughter you mention. I blame her parents !

I agree with mollie Jacks, keep posting because, your poems are good and entertaining and. you've brightened up the gaff but like Tonker says, That daughter needs to learn from you about, creativity and getting out more,

John, you won’t believe this, but I just found in my Bookmarks a link to your name and, when I clicked onto it, it was a list of your songs. I must say, you’re a very good guitarist and you have a smashing voice.

I listened to a few, then I noticed Streets of London, and some others from the early 60s and, believe it or not, when I was a singist, I sung those songs as well. It was a pleasant surprise, but I can’t remember when I kept the link or where it was from.

Tonker, the daughter in question is well grown up now, and is a very busy girl, working for Yorkshire ambulance. She watches very little telly nowadays - and I take all the blame for allowing her her binge-viewing (har har)

Thanks tomplum for your comment.

Mollie. Thanks for listening to some of my songs. Did you do the local clubs etc, and were you a solo performer?

Oh no I wasn't a solo performer. No, we started off as a trio. My partner's brother played lead guitar, and darned good he was too, and my partner played keyboards. I didn't play anything, but my partner and I ended up as a duo. Yes, we did clubs, both local and outside, pubs as well; and a couple of private parties.

We had a really good time while it lasted.

Mollie, I was in 2 bands in the late 70s & early 70s. Katch5, and Flooky. Had tons of fun playing all over the place. Even played some of the Army bases over in Germany. Ah. . . memories (har har)

I was in Germany from 1972 to 1974 so I wonder if we saw you then. My husband was a soldier.

We played there around 1981.

IT'S NO FUN

It's no fun when you're lacking in stature
When your body's deficient in height;
When your nickname is tiny, or shorty
Why, it keeps you awake half the night.

It's no fun when you're out with your buddies
And you go to the bar for a beer;
When the landlord shouts, 'Right then , who's next please ?'
And you wonder, am I really here ?

It's no fun when a light-bulb needs changing
And you try to effect a repair;
And you stretch, but experience tells you
That you'll STILL have to stand on a chair.

It's no fun when you look at your neighbours
And your eyes are as green as can be,
And you reckon it's all in the hormones
Saying, 'That's why they're taller than me !'

Oh give me an inch on my shoulders
Or a foot or two under my feet,
And I'd stand up and proudly be counted,
Being seen to have risen from my seat.

© John Brown
1996.

That was good fun, John. Tell me about it! I'm only 5ft tall and, until recently, I've struggled in shops for whatever I've needed from the top shelves, and I've had to stand there feeling daft until someone taller than me comes along and helps me out! My brother comes with me now and he's 6ft, so that problem is now resolved.

I'm 5ft 4, so I tower over you Mollie (hee hee) Glad you like the poem.

A little poem I wrote
after my son moved to Canada.

MY GENES

My genes have just abandoned me
And taken off my son
To far exotic places
Looking for more fun.

They never even warned me
Or said a last goodbye
They thought that they knew better
And o'er the sea did fly.

It really came as quite a shock
This infidelity
But genes care not for feelings
Or nationality.

Their loyalty is suspect
They are quite devoid of spines
To put it impolitely they're
Two-timing little swines.

I just assumed they'd stay here
At least I thought they should
I've carried them for donkeys' years
In flesh and bone and blood.

But soon they'll be Canadian
When from our Kev' they pass
( I wonder if they're thinking
That they'll then be upper-class ? )

I've thought about it quite a lot
And hope that you'll agree
That I should have them back again
But that's not up to me.

My chances of retrieval
Are as walking to the moon
So the only way to catch them
Is to go to Saskatoon.


© John Brown
1998.

I have a feeling that that's another of your poems that comes from personal experience, and those are always the best.

John, remember I mentioned finding the link to your songs in my Bookmarks? I found where they were last night.

Whilst reading some old topics on here I came across the “What A Racket” thread which is on Page 18-, a couple of threads down, which was posted back in July (I think) and it was about the concert at the Stadium at Robin Park. It was a very interesting and entertaining music-orientated thread, if you’ve time to read through it. Save you scouring through, here's the link, but only if you have time.

What A Racket

Thanks mollie, I'll take a look; and yes this poem is based on a true event, as are quite a lot of my poems. Glad you are liking my stuff.

Interesting mollie, thanks for that.

NOT ROMANTIC

My wife says I'm not romantic,
I don't suppose I am
I think I'm just an average bloke
Doing the best I can;
I think about my lady
And not just now and then
I tell her that I love her
As much as other men.

But this is NOT romantic
It's just not good enough !
She wants the constant flattery
She wants the gooey stuff;
Not just every weekend
Or even days between
She wants the flowers hourly
And treating like a queen.

If truth be told, I'm lazy
And think it doesn't matter
I haven't got the eloquence,
The charm, the chat, the patter;
I've got to be quite honest,
Straightforward and pedantic
My wife is right, I'm not
And never will be a romantic.

© John Brown
2000.

And what, do tell, is wrong with that? That's what every woman wants, but rarely gets. LOL!

Oh, and by the way, us wimmin are ALWAYS right!

I knew that second verse would get me in trouble one day !!! And you wimmin are without doubt always right mollie. . . . creep, creep.

And don't you forget it!

Another true tale.

VITAMIN B

Oh vitamin B, how I've missed you,
My body has long been bereft
Of your strange but miraculous power
To keep a man healthy and blessed.

I've always done all in my power
To do, for my body, the best,
But lately the Doc' found a problem
That showed up in blood put to test.

She sent me to see a Consultant
To see what was giving me grief,
It wasn't my lack of attention,
Or a lack of my eating my beef;

No, it looks like my stomach is failing,
At times, with regard to it's job
Of extracting the nourishment out of my food,
So lovingly sent from my gob.

It's Vitamin B (of the twelfth kind)
The deficiency of, that's to blame
For my serious drop in performance,
For my body's not playing the game.

So now I must go for injections
And try, all my worries, to shelve;
I've got to be off to the Doctor again
To top up on old V.B. 12.

Eight weeks and eight jabs is my portion
Then hopefully all will be well;
And the remedy coursing inside me
Will soon be ringing my bell.

So if you my dear reader are ailing yourself,
If you're listless and tired, like me,
Be off to your Doctor tomorrow – Go on !
And load up with Vitamin B.

© John Brown
2012

Aw, can they not give you B12 pills, rather than the injections? Horrible thought but, if needs must. You put that together really well.

I have pernicious anemia Mollie. Had it for years. Tried injections, and tablets without success. I'm on another course of tablets right now, but doubt if it will help. One of the Doctors (I've seen a few) once told me that I was simply slightly anemic and it was not at a dangerously low level. So that's my situation. Got a poem out of it at least.

So it's more than just an iron deficiency then. Let's hope the new pills help.

As long as my iron level doesn't fall too low I should be ok, and thanks for your concern.

Our little pet Yorkie was quite ill at one time, this poem was based on this.

A SENTINEL
Lay down your head my little one
Close up your sleep-hung eyes;
Give up the day, and all that's gone,
Relinquish earthly ties;
Let calm reside within your breast
Forget the day's long fight;
And join with other dreamers
As they slip into the night.

Then I shall be a sentinel
For you, so much adored;
To care for and protect you
Until you be restored;
For you are all, and everything
To me, and come the morn'
We'll take the day presented us
All fresh and newly born.

© John Brown
2012

Brought a tear to my eye jacks.

Yet another lovely poem Jacks, written straight from the heart.

Thanks mollie & First Mate. Glad you like it.

John, having had more cats than I can count in my lifetime, I know the grief of losing a four-legged family member, and that was beautifully written in memory of your little dog.

Thanks again mollie.

TODAY I SAW

Today I saw my Grandson
His head was in a muddle
He messed around until he slipped
And fell into a puddle;
I picked him up and scolded him
And then I wiped his face
He offered his apologies
Which put me in my place.

With misted eyes and stifled sighs
I listened to his pleas
This scruffy little tearaway
With grazed and grubby knees;
With holes in sweater-elbows
(And inevitably, shoes)
With limitless endurance
And temper without fuse.

I stood and simply wondered
What went on in his head,
His scatter-brained remarks
And all the crazy things he said;
Then off he trotted, scampering,
And jumping like a flea,
Today I saw my Grandson,
And wished that I was he.

© John Brown
2012

Another good 'un Jacks. Would you really want to be that young again though, in this day and age?

Probably not if I'm being honest mollie. I just get fed up sometimes with me old creaky body. I must have been in one those 'poor me' moods when I wrote it.

Nor me. Knowing what's coming, I wouldn't want to be a youngster these days either.

WHISTLING

I miss the sound of whistling
You don't hear it much these days;
Streets seem full of people
Who have lost those whistling ways.

Why this should be, I just don't know
But Oh, it's such a shame
That people will not pucker-up
And play the whistling game.

There was a time, the sound of it
Was not a special treat,
When every paper-boy, or girl
Went whistling down the street;

And in my youth I do recall
I'd practise until blue;
Refining trills and tremolo,
Which then I would review

With pals, as we, in concord
Around some old camp-fire,
Made friendly competition
In our noisy whistling choir.

So why the dearth of whistling,
That clear and lucid tone,
That only human songbirds
Seem bothered to bemoan?

Until the still lips come to miss
The skills they now disown,
I'll get another paper-round
And whistle on my own.

© John Brown
2013

John, I used to love the sound of a chap whistling. When I was a baby/infant and couldn’t sleep, my dad would put me in the car and drive up and down a cobbled road, whistling. I don’t know if it was to any particular tune, and it didn’t matter anyway, but it soothed me and did send me off to sleep. Oddly enough, the cobbles helped as well.

The only person I hear whistling now is one of our Directors at work. He’s always at it. Mind you, he’s got every good reason to whistle being as he’s joint owner of a thriving company.

Thanks for commenting mollie

LAZY SNOW
I saw some lazy snow today
To idle e'en to melt away;
To all the world, beside the road
It sat, just like a fat white toad.

© John Brown
2013

That was short and sweet.

Next one will be longer mollie

IN PRAISE OF BOB-CAPS

Today I have banished my bob-cap
To a hook, in the room 'neath the stair;
It's been a good friend all the winter,
But now it's not needed to wear.

It's kept my head warm in the cold spell,
I've loved it to bits, so it's time
To speak out the praises of bob-caps, and,
I may as well do it in rhyme.

Oh that woollen black shield and protector,
What comfort it's been to my brain
As I've fought 'gainst the wind and the weather,
On my walks o'er the fields, in the rain.

No other will do quite as well as
This marvellous insulant cap;
It doesn't depend upon buttons,
Or laces, nor needs it a strap.

It's perfectly formed for the cranium
With a classic turn-up all around;
Yes, for me it's the ultimate head-wear,
It's the best one that I've ever found.

But there's nothing so plain as a bob-cap,
It's an out and out working man's top;
A snuggingly fitted head covering
That keeps the draughts out of your mop.

But there is an odd fact about bob-caps
Whether worn by the toffs or the yobs:
They've recently renamed them 'Beanies'
Because bob-caps don't always have bobs.

© John Brown
2013

Expert eyes have scrutinized
and scientists agree,
one bob-cap would suffice
but you're better off with three!

Indeed tonker.

I love my white fluffy bonnet which I wear when it's windy or raining. I have long hair and if it's not tucked neatly into me bonnet I look like a wild woman when I get to where I'm going!

MAGGIE T

Margaret Thatcher died today
She used to reign in number ten;
The news went on and on and on...
I hope she doesn't die again.

© John Brown
2013

Coughs and sneezes spread diseases......best short poem in the world..

Thanks Mr Biker. Glad you like it. Watch out for more.

PROPER MUSIC

There's really no such thing as 'proper' music
You either like a piece, or not;
The need for deep analysis is pointless
The end result of which would tell you what?

Appreciation of it is subjective
And one man's concord is another's din;
So let us not be snobbish 'bout the business,
Just listen up, and take it on the chin.

Whichever way you look it's just vibrations
From strings, or reed, or any tube of brass
That ends up rattling through your ear-holes;
It lays no claim to up or lower class.

A scale is just a pure man-made invention
The intervals of which are arbitrary,
Not set in stone, completely at our mercy,
To do with as we please, and we're contrary.

And harmony, also, is naught but fancy,
That moves and bends at some composer's will,
Uniting with the melody, and proving
The joy the listener feels, the bliss, the thrill.

There's nothing in the rule-book can't be broken,
You're free to play whatever comes to mind;
And I am standing by this my conviction,
Without a grudge, complaint, or axe to grind.

But foolish would I be if I were thinking
That all and everyone agreed with me;
So I won't ridicule you, or your music,
If you in turn don't play the fool with me.

© J Brown
2013

Nice one. Thanks John.

Thanks to you mollie

SPOOKY but true !

A HOLE IN MY SOCK

I've noticed, again, a small hole in my sock
And there's something I don't understand:
It puzzles me greatly, I'm baffled, and so
On this subject I now should expand.

I put the sock onto my left foot and see
That peeping out there's my big-toe;
This makes me unhappy, because I am sure
That left there, the small hole it must grow.

To effect a solution is easy enough,
So I swap the sock o'er to my right,
Then the known laws of physics get twisted around,
I begin to lose trust in my sight.

I cannot believe what I see on my foot
It seems that the hole has reversed;
It's moved to the left - to my other big-toe !
I now think my sock has been cursed.

I swap the sock back, and the hole moves again,
It's creepy - what does it intend ?
It's back to the right, where it was in verse two,
I now think I've gone round the bend.

And so I surrender, it's all got too much
Sock-holes move, and of that there's no doubt;
I just wanted to warn you about it, and thought,
Like the toe, that I'd just point it out.

© John Brown
2013

Really funny, yet very true!

Thanks mollie. It was a fun poem to write. Glad you like it.

I like all your poems. They're lively, funny and well thought out. Hated poetry at school with boring old Robert Browning and Shelley etc. Home grown are much better, especially when they have a story to tell with a conclusion. Better than wandering aimlessly through a bunch of daffs!

Thanks again my friend.

THE GREATEST GIFT

The greatest gift to youngsters
Must be the mobile phone,
That tiny sacred instrument
Which all of them now own.

No need to wait one second
To speak to your best friend,
Or leave a texting message
(One button-press will send.)

They've even built-in cameras
With which to snap your pals,
And then online the pictures go
To all the guys and gals.

These handy little marvels
So dainty, neat and small
Fit snugly in a pocket, and
Take up no space at all.

How did our youngsters all survive
Without this piece of kit;
What use their thumbs before, that now
O'er keyboards deftly flit?

What use indeed, if all of them
Whilst engaged in a call
Cannot see where they're going
And they walk into a wall !

© John Brown
2013

Another good read.

Yet another reason why technology hasn't always been the best thing to happen. Not only do they walk into walls, they also walk out in the road without looking, and/or hearing because of ear plugs listening to music. I've almost bagged quite a few when driving, and I've had to hit the horn and brake hard to avoid them.

But, nil desperandum. One day, in the not too distant future, babies will be born with built-in communications devices or, failing that, people will have a Comm Badge each, much like they do in Star Trek, thereby eliminating the use of a phone.

Heaven preserve us.

Well, I hope it doesn't happen, but you didn't read the thread we discussed we had on Artificial Intelligence a couple of months ago. It's already happening.

I don't know if you've noticed, but this thread of yours has had over 1200 views, so others are reading your poems who may not be members, but they've obviously taken an interest.

One of my sons works in I.T. so if I want to know what's coming I can just ask him, and brace myself. I've only just got to grips with my smart phone ( and telly) Hope things don't get too complicated, or it's curtains for some.
As to views: 1200 you say! Yikes! that's a fair few innit.

Jacks, I enjoy all your poems, especially your poem Whistling. It reminded me of my Dad who was always whistling and very good he was too. He also taught himself to play the piano but his great love was his mouth organ. Mum told me that when they were young and first married (almost a hundred years ago now !! ) on fine summer evenings he would sit on the doorstep of the old terraced house they lived in, playing his mouth organ. Neighbours would come out into the street to dance to his music or to have a sing - a - long. Simple pleasures of times long gone.

Thanks for reading the poem, and commenting holly. Glad you like it, and that it brought back happy memories for you. Maybe someone could start a Whistling Club or something - what do you think?

LITTLE BIRD

Sat by my evening window
A tragedy occurred,
When into it crashed heavily
A tiny little bird;
Down fell the little creature
Into the flower's bed,
I upped to gaze upon it
Quite certain it was dead.

I picked the lifeless blue-tit
And held it in my hand,
It wasn't dead, but didn't move,
I didn't understand;
It lay there shallow breathing
Both eyes were tightly closed,
I gave the bird but little hope
At least, so I supposed.

I held him close and warmed him
Cupped closely to my breast,
And found it difficult to halt
The tear I near suppressed;
I prayed he would recover,
It seemed a savage waste
If he should die forever,
There in my palms encased.

A flicker of a movement
Then caught my misted eye,
He showed himself a fighter
This bird, then by and by
He quickly did recover,
And off, away he flew
As if it never happened,
To start his life anew.

© John Brown
2013

Aw, poor little soul. He was obviously just stunned. I've never had a bird fly into my windows that I know of, but I hang dream catchers or wind chimes in my windows so hopefully they can determine the safety of their flight.

Thanks for reading mollie. Never having held a blue-tit before, I was amazed at how tiny it was, yet so tough. It hit the glass with a fair old wallop I can tell you.

A PHONE CALL PLEASE

The telephone is melting
The wife's been on all day;
I need to get a call made
But don't know how to say.

How can I gently hint at
My need, without offence ?
I see the eyes, that steely stare,
The pressure is immense.

I could go to the call-box
But out, it's pouring down,
And anyway, why should I ?
Oh come on Mrs Brown !

Still open lies the phone-book
Which she don't really need,
She knows the numbers off by heart
And whacks them in at speed.

By now I feel a victim
I glance, and she's on still,
I'd only be five minutes,
And I pay half the bill !

But even so she natters on
As if next week will do,
So I make for the kitchen
To have yet another brew.

Then just as I am leaving,
My eyes a-bulge and red,
It's then she hands it over, and guess what?
The battery's dead.

© John Brown
2013

LOL! Isn't that typical? You'll have to get one of your own John, or get a landline put in! Women can talk the hind leg of a donkey when they get going, so you've no chance unless you get there first!

Well mollie, I do have a mobile nowadays, but it can be a race to the charger now ! . . . I can't win (hee hee)

NO SET DATES

There are no set dates for the summer
Or for autumn, or winter, or spring,
We know they've arrived as we feel them,
It's part of the joy of the thing.

The turn of the seasons o'erlap , and
The climate is slave to no clock,
As spring simply hands over power
To summer, dressed in her best frock;

Who paints, for a time, pretty pictures
'Fore the sap begins running back down,
And chlorophylled leaves look to autumn,
Where misty rich colours abound.

Then a shedding commences in earnest
When the nod has been tipped to begin,
With the almanac casually sidelined
Then lazily dropped in the bin.

Overnight the cold falls, quick as secret
And breathes it's white blast with a will,
Freezing the days as it pleases
And icing the nights with it's chill.

And nothing but nothing can staunch now
The whip of the winter - no clock,
The calendar-box memorandum
And red-letter day it will mock.

But 'fore very long mother nature
Has sung the best song she can sing,
While there are no set dates for the summer
Or for autumn, or winter, or spring.

By J Brown Sept 2013

A lovely poem there, John. I can see the scenes that you paint in your words - and it's also very true about the seasons in this country as each one is so unpredictable.

Thanks again mollie. As long as someone is reading my poems I'll keep posting them.

You remember I told you about the little poem I wrote called "The Bumbling Bee?" Well, I've put it in the topic Spring by PeterP as somebody mentioned wasps. Fancy having a toot?

Mollie, I've tooted, and commented on your Bumbling Bee poem.

OH WELL

If only I could bend like I used to,
If only I could see through the gloom,
If only my joints would behave themselves
As I walk to my chair 'cross the room;
But they won't - it's like hell. . .
Oh well!

If only my skin would stop crinkling
And the blue bags 'neath both of my eyes
Be just a bad dream, then the mirror
I'd nevermore need to despise;
But my fear I can't quell. . .
Oh well!

If only my hair would stop thinning,
And you'd think in this day and this age
That the boffins could work out a cure for
This malady, making men rage;
And by gum would it sell. . .
Oh well!

I wish to return to my childhood
When, falling down I would then bounce
Back up, and be off on my travels
And out I would then quickly flounce;
But now I don't run round pell-mell. . .
Oh well!

© John Brown
2013

Aye, it comes to us all sooner or later. I'm 75 now and haven't looked in a mirror in years. I'd be frikkened of seeing what was gawping back at me!

Aye, it does indeed mollie. I'm 74 and feel 94 some days. All we can do is plod on regardless, and hope for the best.

Two trees

Two trees: Elder and Alder. Now let's see,
The Elder is 10 years old,
The Alder is 20 years old,
The Alder is older than the Elder,
The Elder is younger than the older Alder.
Sounds like some kind of yodeling to me.


© John Brown
2018

That's an odd one for you, chuck.

Looking forward to your next poem.

A bit odd, I suppose so mollie. Just some daft thing that was going round in my head one day. Here's one on more familiar territory.

I LOVE AND HATE
I love and hate this time of year
The damp, the cold, the drawing near
Of frost returning o'er the stones,
The chill enveloping my bones,
The songbirds that I see no more,
These things all freeze me to the core;

When nature draws her curtains tight
Replacing daylight with the night;
When winter, round the corner peeps,
And hibernators start their sleeps;
When autumn waves a brisk goodbye,
These thing I hate, but wonder why.

I love and hate this time, and yet
I should remember, not regret,
That round and round the cycle winds
The seasons, with their several kinds;
The rising of the spring-birthed green
Upon the eye, the freshest scene;

The summer blaze, the cobalt sky.
It's not for me then to deny
The spirit of the yearly round,
It's place upon this earthly ground.

I wait for swallows on the wing,
And must look forward to the spring.

© John Brown
2013

Really like your work jacks.

Thanks very much First Mate, I'm glad you like the poems. Sharing them makes me happy.

I like all your poems as well, and this recent one was another lovely read.

Thanks once again mollie.

161 Go Dig

It is, again, that time of year
When all good men go digging.
I say good men, but then again,
Not all good men know digging;
It all depends upon the likes
Or dislikes in the genes,
And if you love your onions
Your carrots and your greens.

I love to wield that trusty blade
And slot it in the earth,
To dig and delve as if my life
Depended on it's worth;
Cracking up the clay-clods
And fracturing the frost,
Knowing that come forth the spring
All will be worth the cost.

Oh yes, it is that time to be
Re-nourishing the soil,
By digging in the compost
Unheeding of the toil;
Of chopping in the annual weeds
And bulking up the loam,
Then cleaning off your wellingtons
'Fore setting off for home.

And so, to those who do not dig
To put food on their table,
Wise up, and buy yourself a spade,
Go dig, if you are able.

© John Brown
2013

Those were the days, John, when I'd be out there with my spade and planting. Unfortunately I'm no longer capable of such strenuous tasks as age now forbids it.

It did put me in mind, however, of the time (40 years ago) when I decided we'd have a patio at the back, so I set to digging through clay, stones and other building debris. I dug out a 15 x 9 for the flagging, and a good foot down for the silt. Gives me the shakes thinking about it now.

What was sort of funny was that, when I'd finished, I looked behind me and saw the mound I'd created. Mum was watching what I was doing, bringing me cups of tea now and again and the only words that came out of her mouth were "Tha' favvers a navvy doing that."

A lot of your poems make me think back to earlier days, and that's why I enjoy them so much.

"Tha' favvers a navvy"- now that is real Wiganese. Sounds like you were a champion digger in those earlier days mollie. Thanks again for reading, I appreciate your comments.

FACEBOOKLAND

Is there anything at all that's new on Facebook ?
I've not been on for, Oh at least ten sec's;
Please let me know the latest if you will, 'cos
I think I've gone and lost my flamin' spec's.

I know that I could magnify the picture,
That is if I could see which key to press;
What's happening, I must know , I'm getting desperate ?
The time is flying by and I'm a mess.

(My heart goes out to all who haven't signed up,
What do they do all day, I'd like to know ?
There's nothing in the world that's more important
Than news from Fred and Tom and Bill and Joe.)

I used to have a lot of little hobbies,
I painted, and was learning how to play
The old Joanna, and the set of drums that
My wife kept threatening to throw away.

But Facebook now is all the world I need, and
Regardless of the cost, I'll clear the decks
Of all I used to do, my many pastimes,
At least I will if I can find my spec's.

© J Brown
2013

Well, John, social media is something I avoid like the plague. Never been a member, and never will, so I hope that poem was written tongue-in-cheek.

My heart goes out to those that have nothing better to do with their precious time, as time is very precious. I use my time to go to work four afternoons a week to the job I've been employed at for almost 42 years, full time from age 35 in 1983 for 25 years till I turned 60, then part time thereafter for 15 years till now.

Maybe I'll write a poem about that.

tongue-in-cheek. most definitely Mollie. I have people queuing up to be my 'friend' on Facebook but that just comes with the territory. I'm on Facebook, to keep in touch with family - and Wigan World of course, and that's enough for me.
Thanks again for reading.

FLAME OF LOVE

Flame of love come near me
And let me feel the heat
Let me glide above the ground
Instead of on my feet;

Tell me all your secrets
And blaze within my heart
Then my dearest love and I
May never be apart;

For I am no great lover
And cannot crack the code
So bear me up and teach me
And lift my heavy load;

But if my plea is wasted
And life's too much to handle
I'll have to pop out to the shop
And buy myself a candle.

© John Brown
2013

I like that one as well.

Thanks Mollie

INTERROGATIVE INTONATION (or upspeak)

Interrogative intonation
Drives me up the wall,
Apart from valid questioning
It shouldn't be used at all;
I hear it almost every sentence,
It's getting worse and worse
This blight upon our language,
It really is a curse.

I'm at the stage where sometimes
I hear it when it's not there,
That near impending rise in tone
From mouths that have no care;
From where comes this insistent
Verbal impropriety
That's said to be a sign
Of rampant insecurity ?

I know not, nor do really care
I just wish it's use would cease,
Then I'd regain my sanity
And get some longed for peace.

And so if you are guilty too
Of practising this tone,
This oral detestation
That's causing me to moan,
Please spare a thought for others
Who cannot stand the sound of
Interrogative intonation
By which your mouth is bound;

Give up this strange expression
So carelessly applied,
Return now to your senses
And cast the thing aside,
Because my friend this habit
Is to English no enhancer, and
If every line's a question
Then there'll never be an answer.

© John Brown
2013

What? Which? Why? Where?

Very clever poem. What aggravates me the most in spoken English are double negatives, and Americanisms, which we chatted about in a thread I put on here called AMERICANISMS a short while ago. They're everywhere now, and people use them without thinking.

When In was in school (All Saints) our English teacher once took every effort to explain double negatives to the class. I grasped it straight away, but I've had occasion to explain it to people many times, some with little success. It baffles me!

It baffles me why people don't understand it. Perhaps they've not had the edumacation that we did! I'm the only one at work who knows what an apostrophe is and where it's used, despite having explained it several times.

I blame text-speak to some extentntt

I du 2

Shurrup you. John, take no notice.

Water off a duck's back Mollie.

I've known him on the internet for around 20 years and I know he's just being comical.

I also blame text speak, and computers in general when they don't have a grammar check switched on. It's no wonder they can't speak, read or write properly.

HAVING A BATH

Lovely bubbles thick and creamy,
Water deep and room all steamy,
World shut out and I'm all dreamy,
Guess what ? I'm having a bath.

Door is locked, I'm on my own,
Don't need T.V. or telephone,
I lie there like a block of stone,
I'm happy, having a bath.

Wash my hair and scrub my toes,
Scratch my back and rub my nose,
Think of things that I propose
To do . . . after my bath.

Then I hear the sound of thunder
As it seems, when my head's under,
It's just a dream, a mental blunder,
I'm only having a bath !

Melting in my bed of blue,
While outside there's a great 'to-do'
The family's queueing for the loo !
. . . An hour's too long for a bath.


© John Brown
1994.

LOL! Where do you get your ideas from for these poems? They really are very good and worthy of being put into print. Seems to me that all of them so far have come from personal experience, which is the best way to express yourself. I can (almost) picture the scene in each poem (not including this one ) I might add, so don't be alarmed!

My house is a semi,
3 bedrooms and one loo
but which ever room I go in
there's someone else in Too

No matter how much we plan it
on written board or speech
we never get a private bit
to eat that juicy peach,

Thats why I go out camping
and being by myself
the others can have the bathroom
and its better for my health.

Mollie, I get my ideas from anywhere and everywhere. As you point out, most of them seem to come from personal experience, but I have also written a fair few that are pure fiction.

Tom, Sounds like you have a full house there.

Jacks , there are 3 in my house and, it seems my magnetic personality draws the other 2 to the same room

Tom: As Eric Morecombe would say - There's no answer to that!

Here is one that is pure fiction Mollie.

ETHEL WINTERBOTTOM

Ethel was an ugly girl
But this was not her fault;
It stemmed from drinking beer with men
While standing in the 'vault.'

A Winterbottom through and through,
At fighting she was good;
And thick brown stout ran through her veins
Instead of pure red blood.

Yes Ethel was a bruiser,
Just like her dear old dad;
Some people reckoned she
And all her family were mad.

Her tongue was like a bayonet
And she'd cut you to the quick
For any little trifle,
Such as calling Ethel thick.

The town that Ethel came from
Was born of jet-black coal;
A mining town in Lancashire,
A miner every soul.

Where life was hard and cruel
And you needed to be tough;
Where money was hard worked for
Amongst the jet-black stuff.

Men were very lucky
To reach old age round there;
To leave the pit come pension time,
With all your limbs, was rare.

Now Ethel had three sisters,
A father and a brother;
But living hard, and thick brown stout
Had taken Ethel's mother.

She'd had to grow up quickly
And learn to stand her ground;
No funny business was allowed
When Ethel was around.

She gave her brothers blow for blow
And curse for curse as well;
No man would better Ethel
Yes, she gave the miners hell.

But now the lass was getting on
And weary of life's fights,
The daily grind among the coal,
The long and drunken nights.

No one had ever told her
This didn't have to be;
Now Ethel's in the graveyard,
But beautiful and free.

© John Brown
1996.

Love it Jacks. I could ''see" Ethel. You have wonderful talent for bringing words to life.

Thank you very much Hollie. Glad you like my scribblings.

Working on a roof one day
the day was cold and nippy
and i was't very happy
cos the roof was wet and slippy

So I tied a rope from the front of the house
To the bumper of my van,
the other end was over the roof
and secured through my beltloop span,

This gave me confidence on the tiles
I worked safely for a an hour,
till someone drove my van away and it wiped away my smiles

The rope had broke my beltloop grip
and left me with a frown
cos now I'm insecure on the roof
and me trousers have fell down,

a lady in the house next door
screamed and shouted, thats the truth
I never though I'd see the day
There's a flasher on my roof,

Was John Wayne a Yugoslav,
or was he really Norse?
Whichever way t'cat jumps
he knew how t'ride a horse!


Well, I've been to Tom's house,
in fact I've been there twice.
If I happen to go once again
I'll have been there thrice!

Tonker had a corner shop
he sold cigs and wine
his bestest things were mars bars
Me Dad bought them all the time

He knew all the kids on Rag Brew
and towd um that one day
he'd have a row of corner shops
but then he disappeared and went away,

John, poor old Ethel! Smashing poem.

Even Tom and Tonker's poems are coming along nicely.

We're just stockin' fillers Mollie ,
and adding to the fun
there's no intent to steals Jacks thunder
Jack's the icing on the Bun

I know that Tom. I've not added any of mine here, but I'll put some on the board one of these days.

I like iced-buns Tom. I also like your poem. . . flasher on the roof. It made me chuckle.

THE BALLAD OF RONNIE DUNWOODY

Ronnie Dunwoody done wrong to his buddy
He done him a dastardly deed;
He killed him one night
In the cold moonless light
In the heat of his passion and greed.

Regardless of all of the danger
Dunwoody had made up his mind;
He knew he'd do time
For his obnoxious crime
If evidence he left behind.

The speak-easy rang out with laughter
The show, Ronnie knew, had begun;
He bagged up his buddy
With fingers all bloody
While those out the front had their fun.

The rear of the joint was in darkness
Hiding well the dead body of Jake;
In the hands of a knave
On it's way to a grave,
At the bottom of Michigan lake.

The cops in their car on the corner
Knew nothing of Dunwoody's crime;
But as Ronnie drove by
They were wondering why
He kept looking behind all the time.

It was not very far to the water
But Ronnie was not in the clear;
When the cop's siren wailed
He was sure he had failed
And the thought of it filled him with fear.

He stopped, as he couldn't out-run them,
On the floor of the car was his knife;
If they looked in the trunk
Then he knew he was sunk
And the sentence could only be life.

'Hey Mac ! you should look where you're goin',
Because drivin' that way is a crime;
I should book you I guess
'Cause you're sure in a mess . . .
But get lost, and be careful next time.'

Ronnie drove to the edge of the quayside
Lake Michigan swallowed his 'chum';
The crime was complete
He was out of the heat
And away, back from where he had come.

The club was still ringing with laughter
When Ronnie arrived on the scene;
But he silenced the crowd
As he told them out loud:
'Jake's gone . . . if you know what I mean ?

So, Ronnie had moved up the ladder
In fact he was now at the top;
The racket was his
With the whole premises
And he'd drain it right to the last drop.

But out of a dark smoky corner
Stepped a man who would foil Ronnie's plan;
Jake was still in the place
With a smile on his face
Because Ronnie had killed the wrong man !

© John Brown
1996.

RAIN MATES

It's something to do with diesel cars
and fields full of cows farting,
the weather has gone haywire,
the sky full of clouds discharging
rain like there's no tomorrow,
it never lets up,
umbrella industry shares are on the up.
Now everywhere's flooded,
or so it seems.
Workingmens clubs in the north-west
are full of football teams
who's games have been cancelled due to a waterlogged pitch,
they all blame it on Thatcher,
the unethical witch,
you never saw HER wearing a Rain-Mate!

© Tonker
2025.

Jacks: That's a brilliant poem. Loved it.

Tonker: You are incorrigible.

Thanks again Mollie.

Edwina Curry, a Tory child
who never shopped in Greggs
She didn't like northern folks
and didn't like soft boiled eggs

during a trip to Wigan one time
She called in tonkers shop,
she wanted a pie and 3 mars bars
but she caught him on the hop

he'd sowd all't mars bars to my Dad
and he wouldn't be ashamed cos,
My Dad came in often
And Edwina didn't give a toss

"phsssshhhhhhhhh, pffffffffff, sheeeee, six Mars Bars"!

ON POPPING MY CLOGS

I think I'd rather pop my clogs
In summer's warm embrace;
The thought of death in winter
Is more than I could face;

I wouldn't want my children
To freeze while stood around
My grave, all wrapped in woolies,
Me naked in the ground.

So please Lord, take me home
When all the leaves are on the trees;
When no one has a cough, an ache,
A sniffle or a sneeze;

Oh, and if it is no trouble
And you really do not mind,
Please make the summer beautiful
For those I leave behind.

© John Brown
2013

Oh John, you were down in the dumps when you wrote that one, weren't you?

Yeah Mollie. I must have been having a bad day I suppose - happens to us all.

FIT FOR NOTHING

Why do all the joggers keep jogging
(The old ones I mean, not the young) ?
In their flash Lycra-fitting accessories,
By the fit-bug it seems, they've been stung.

They've bought all the spiel about keeping
Their bodies as fit as can be;
The trap has been fallen right into,
At the altar they've bended their knee.

It's said that your heartbeats are numbered,
So it's sensible (though they can't see)
To use them up slowly, and lengthen
Your life and your family tree.

What game do they think they are playing
When plodding along in the rain ?
A bottle of water in each hand,
Desperately hiding the pain.

Don't they know that it's folly to dice with
The natural rhythm of age ?
It's easy to work out the dangers,
You don't need the brain of a sage:

Don't run in the snow or the heatwave
Your health's in a perilous state;
And that monitor stuck on your wrist
Won't help to reduce your heart-rate.

I've seen them come close to exhaustion
While they look like they're on their last legs;
Get on home - pretty quick - put your feet up,
Break open the bacon and eggs,
And consider the cost of the gym-fees,
The vitamins and health-drinks you're quaffing,
Be like me now that I am retired,
Be like me, Johnny B, fit for nothing.

© John Brown
2013

My sentiments entirely, John. I've never exercised in my life and was in pretty good condition until just over 12 months ago, but I still work as I'm not ready to hang up me clogs yet, and I'm 75.

Good for you Mollie.

COLOURS

Green is the carpet that covers the hill
White is the sheep who is eating his fill,
Blue is the curtain that hangs overhead
Black is the darkness that's better not said.

Purple is kingly and rightly should be
Brown is the earth as it holds you and me,
Yellow is summer and warm like the sun
Red at the end of the day when it's done.

Grey is a bleak day and filled with the rain
Always uncertain and so to remain,
Silver is quickly, and costly is gold,
But lovely are poems
When once they are told.

© John Brown
1994.

Yet, another lovely poem. What was it that inspired you to first start writing these, John? I think the earliest ones I've seen on here were from 2013, until this one.

I once bought a bike from Millers,
In nineteen severity two,
a second hand triumph Bonnie
but fevered like it was brand new,

Three hundred and sixty pounds it cost
and I wanted it to be mine
So I did a deal with the devil
and signed the bottom line,

I'd signed up for five years
And I never looked back at the deal
The best years of my youth
Riding a Bike built with that Great British Feel.

God Bless England today, St Georges Day,

That's another good one, Tom.

thanks mollie,

I can also add,

Johns brown's brother went a riding on my bike.
Frank n Me went to college in Bolton if you like,
he was a plater and a welder don't you see
But he never had transport,

Glory glory alleluia
We would always give it to ya
long hair and tashes gone from us
but we go trundling on,,,,,,
From Frank and Tom

Mollie: I started writing in the early 90s. I left school (All saints, Frog Lane) in 1965, with no qualifications at all, and it had bothered me for years. The only subjects I was interested in at school were Music (top of the class once!) , Science and English. In September of 1993 I refused to admit to myself that I was 'a bit thick' and decided to test myself, to see how I would have fared at English, had I taken an English exam at any time. I enrolled for a night school course, and about a year later I passed a G.C.S.E. exam, with a 'B' result. During the course we were asked to write a short story, and I submitted one called 'The ballad of Norman Jack and Billy' This prompted me to see if I could write it out as a poem, which I did, and have carried on writing ever since. Here is the poem. It's a true tale by the way.


THE BALLAD OF NORMAN JACK AND BILLY

Summer days in sixty three
Happy carefree hours in play;
Three boys that could in no way know
The folly that would blight their day.

Jack turned out to meet big Norman
Finding bird's nests couldn't wait;
They also called for smiling Billy,
Or 'Professor' to his mates.

Dusty tattered shoes that stepped
So lightly -- not with careful tread,
Down the pebbled pathway, turning
Running through the wheat-field bed.

In the wood, much darker then,
But still they saw the nest on high;
The boy had almost reached his goal
Then from below he heard a cry.

The warning came too late, the farmer
Showed his power, they had a choice:
But not for them the 'cop-shop,' no,
'We'll work,' they answered with one voice.

And so the trio did, all wondering
How to pay the farmer back;
Plotting in their childish heads,
Norm, Professor and young Jack.

The cleaning was a tiresome chore,
For Bill the geese-pen was a pain;
But Jack was happy cleaning cars
And pouring polish down the drain.

Seeing this, his smile returning,
Billy gave the goose a kick;
'That'll teach the thing,' he muttered,
'Pigs and geese they make me sick !'

When the farmer's rage subsided
And he thought they'd had enough,
Another lecture then he gave them,
Talk of trespassing and stuff.

'Off you go, and if I see you
Here once more you will regret
Ever coming on my land
You scallywags, go on now, get !'

'And close the gate as you go by,
You'll have the geese all running free; '
We sauntered off and I walked over
By the pen, as he'd bid me.

'Twas then the goose that Bill had kicked,
He saw his opportunity,
The whole flock joined in, just for fun,
And chased the lads and made them flee.

The farmer and his mate laughed hard,
The boys ran off at quite a lick;
The geese gave chase, and honked and pecked,
They looked like feathered lunatics !

Once free the trio heaved a sigh,
Red faced and cursing those two men;
But still they knew it was deserved,
'We'll never go near there again !'


© John Brown
1994.

Interesting to show that you weren't thick at all, and you do have a good grasp of the English language, so good for you for proving it to yourself.

Now then, Norman, Jack and Billy. Very naughty boys trying to rob the nests of the poor little birds that had worked hard to build them for their families.

Serves you right for trying to get the better of a goose. Glad he brought in reinforcements to chase you all off!

Thanks for commenting Mollie. What a day that was, and I've been scared of geese ever since then - they were crazy!!!

Bird nesting was a common hobby amongst us lads. I've since regretted it of course. I think I wrote a poem about that too, if I can find it I'll post it.