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!