Poetry - August 2008

Crazy Golf Blues

I putt the ball and try so hard
To get it in the hole
Only for a ball to hit the windmill
And send it back all told
To where I started to putt my shot
And so I go again
Keeping to try to get past this hole
And not suffer the ten shots shame
I'll occasionally hit the ramp at speed
And so hopefully go down the other side
But when the ball just doesn't want to know
It'll stop at the bottom and hide
Whenever I try my hardest
Is when I seem to fail the most
And so I now just hit and hope
And let it rebound off a side post
If I get a hole in one
I feel decidedly chuffed to bits
Because I've got the crazy golf blues
Where the hole in one is bliss.

(Crazy golf, mini golf, whatever, they're all good fun and definitely worth a good half hour of anyone's time. Try the one at the top of the Great Orme if you want some fun.)

A Real Ale Pub With No Ale?

I was walking through Stratford
On a lovely hot and summery day
Wanting to find somewhere for lunch
That would have the ale to make me go "yaay!"
As I entered one pub I could see
That the pump clip had been rotated round
This meant that there wasn't any ale
And not a barrel of the good stuff to be found
I then located another pub
That claimed to sell the cask stuff
And even had the cask marque logo on the door
So in I went, but soon out in a huff
Their choice of ale was from four to none
Everything wasn't available at all
And I thought that having that logo on the door
Just smacked of smugness and having gall.

(It amazes me how many pubs really do want to thrive off the fact they sell real ale. All well and good until they don't have any and don't have the foresight to ensure enough stock. It's a warm day, people like a nice pint, simple economics or so you'd think!)

Suburnt In Huddersfield

I went over the border into Yorkshire
To watch the Challenge Cup Semi final
To cheer on the Saints against Leeds
And the stadium appeared quite full
The weather forecast had said rain
But there was none of that today
As the sun beat down as kick off approached
And at half twelve it was a harmful ray
Sun hats were on some but for most
Who had seen that same weather forecast
It was a case of grinning and bearing it
As their skin was getting red quite fast
By the time Saints had won the game
I was definitely feeling the strain
And wished that those weather forecasters
Had been correct in predicting the rain
I had burnt myself in the intense heat
And managed to slowly soothe myself with after sun
But knowing how much it takes to repair the skin
The damage had already been done.

(It was warm enough, but whoever at the BBC decided on a 12.30 kick off for live telly needs shooting. As do the weather forecasters for predicting non-existing rain..)

I Can't Sleep

The room is too warm
I don't have air conditioning
The humidity is getting to me
I have the fans whacked on full
No matter what I do
From lying still to tiring myself out
I can't sleep like I want to do
And it's really getting me lairy
I just want to be able to nod off
Get some forty winks for a while
The more I try, the more I fail
And I just inside feel so fragile
Eventually I'll nod off for a bit
But just feel so uncomfortable
And sweat as I wake up
Realising the time is way too soon.

(One thing I dislike about Manchester is that the humidity levels are often not comfortable for me.)

Stratford Haiku

Shakespeare lived his life
Wrote his plays and performed them
Now a tourist trap.

(Simple and to the point..)