The Old Lady, The Postman, and The Girl.

The old lady sits silently pissing.

Reminiscing, she wonders where

On the long road of life she took

The turning that led to this chair.

Daily she sits in the same corner

And wets herself from time to time

As tears trickle down her cheek.

The postman passes through the lounge.

Seeing the old lady he is reminded of

His Nan. His nose wrinkles as he tries

to place the smell. At first he thinks of

cabbage then grimaces as he realises

What it is only too well. He puts the

Mail on the empty desk and leaves.

The old lady sees the postman passing.

She is reminded of someone she knows

But can't remember who it is or even

His name. She squirms in her wetness

And wonders where the girl is with the tea.

The squeaking wheel of the trolley no

Longer disturbs the peace of the day.

The blonde girl serving tea is shyly aware

Of the postman's stare. She blushes

As he stops to speak and lets his eyes

Wander over her breasts before resting

On her face. The old lady is forgotten as

He attempts once more to persuade the

Girl to meet him in the pub after work.

The old lady seeing this brief encounter

Wonders what she would have done if

Such an opportunity had come her way.

Would she have been a faithful wife or

Perhaps have given in to temptation.

What would the girl do? She seemed nice

But even nice girls can be hussies.

The girl is tempted but she knows the

Postman is married with children and

Wonders how she would feel if her

Husband, when she has one, cheated

On her with a girl who served tea to

Old ladies who pissed themselves

In the corner from time to time.

The postman wonders how long he'll

Need to work on the girl before she

gives in and meets him for a drink.

They all fell for his charms in the end.

He is looking forward to his next

Delivery where a bored brunette

Teetering on the edge is waiting.

The old lady sits silently waiting

Patiently as the girl gets nearer with

The squeaky tea trolley. The girl

Reaches her and pouring a cup from

The urn puts it by her side. The old

Lady tries to smile but the effort is

Too great so falls asleep instead.

Mustn't Grumble

Why do some find life so hard?

While others sail serenely through

All the strife that comes their way

Not once or twice but day on day.

The moaners like to moan a lot

But does it help? No! Not a jot,

And everything seems so much bother.

If it's not one thing then it's another.

For myself I try to smile

And bear my lot with fortitude.

Although not rich I live in style

I have heating, light, a roof, and food.

And on occasions if I should stumble

I think, 'Oh well,' Mustn't grumble.

Advice For A Friend

Get close to your enemies,

Let them feel your love.

Return the threat of the hawk

With the peace of the dove

Hold back your strength

When they think you weak.

Receive the words that wound

And turn the other cheek.

From being like the Lord

Your power will come.

And if all else should fail; then

Nils illegitimus carborundum.

Let His Spirit Flow

Softly, gently
See the sun is rising
Darkness leaving
Now the day is warming

Raindrops falling
Feel the earth accepting
Seedlings growing
Creation is responding

Warmed by the rays
Of the sun fruit grows
Nourished by the earth
Fed by the words
Of the Son we grow
Let His Spirit flow.

Love, joy, peace, and faithfulness
Let His Spirit flow
Patience, kindness, goodness too
Let His Spirit flow
Gentleness and self-control
Let His Spirit flow.

Always seeking
Making time for learning
Slowly changing
Now we are maturing.

Love, joy, peace, and faithfulness
Let His Spirit flow
Patience, kindness, goodness too
Let His Spirit flow
Gentleness and self-control
Let His Spirit flow.

Hurting

He never even noticed times were changing
I guess he thought they never really would
He wanders round the empty house despairing
And wants to make things better if he could
They went to church every single Sunday
To praise the Lord and give their ten percent
He wonders if she knows how he's so lonely
And feeling so betrayed that she went.

A mile or two away she's with her lover
And glad for some attention for a time
It's not as if she's getting any younger
But he talks to her and she feels in her prime
They're making love but still her thoughts are drifting
Back to a time when it was all pretend
She wonders if he knows and if he's hurting
That she's lying in the arms of his best friend

Early hours and still he's up and thinking
About another time when he was young and keen
His wife has gone and he feels like he is sinking
They'd married at a rather young nineteen
She pulls her robe around a little tighter
And watches as the sun breaks in the sky
She thinks about a future that was brighter
And cries inside and feels that she could die.

The Nutter

In the square of a nearby town

There stands a man; the local clown.

When from the Bible he begins to utter,

He’s called many things; but mainly nutter.

On shopping days when edging by

It doesn’t pay to catch his eye;

‘You Sir, Madam, have you heard?

Come rest a while and hear His word.’

In the beginning he then begins

Nailing you with a manic grin.

The Lord created all you see;

Surely Sir, you must agree?

Six days He worked without a rest,

He made us all; we should feel blessed.

And on, and on, and on he goes.

Your eyelids droop, your boredom grows.

You drift away through time and space,

You're somewhere else, another place.

You settle back, you've lost desire,

And now he's somewhere near Isaiah.

You have to go, you've made it clear,

You're sinking fast and need a beer.

You're ready to give a small donation

When glory be; he's at Revelation.

In the square of a nearby town

There stands a man; the local clown.

When from the Bible he begins to utter,

He’s called many things; but mainly nutter.

‘You Sir, Madam, have you heard?

Come rest a while and hear His word.’

And now the truth has set me free

The nutter that you clearly see - is me.

Modelling Her New Career

Fashion model came from Bolton;

went to Paris saw the sights.

She scaled the heights.

Close cropped hair with slit down skirt.

With flesh on show, she's such a flirt,

beneath the lens and harsh white glare.

Then left on stalls in pouring rain;

oh dear Tracy, such a shame!

Peasant girl came from Paris;

went to Bolton became a bride.

At least she’d tried.

Streaked blonde hair and dress of white;

not for her Dior’s delight.

Outside the Church she’s catching stares.

Then fifteen kids and fag in mouth

She shuffles round the house, who cares?

Idle Thoughts of a Fox

Come hither now you juicy bird

I think it's time we had a word

Or two about the state of play

Existing on this lovely day.

Just sitting plump out of reach

I think you're willing me to teach

You a lesson; and what then?

You'll be lunch my fine red hen!

By The Canal

Curious by the sound of sighs; was that the only reason why?

I searched, stumbling through chest high weeds that flourished

in stony ground. Pausing by oil-stained, sun-shafted water, anxious

for a look, a sight, or just a glimpse of tormenting sound.

He lay quite still and fast asleep; snoring rasped through yellow

Teeth. A dog and dirty mac lay by his side. Not knowing what

else to do or say I placed a pound on his coat and, after falling

over an old pram, turned and tip-toed noisily away.

In a Graveyard

Devoid of flesh here lie some bones,

Beneath the well-worn weathered stones.

Six feet deep in good red clay,

No longer touched by light of day.

A simple life lived to the full,

With some thrills but mainly dull.

And when he passed as he must;

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

For Audenesque his clocks were stopped

The day his clogs were surely popped.

A good husband; father? It matters none;

He breathed his last and now he's gone

But; what of his soul released?

It dwells with God in perfect peace.

My Twenty Three

The Lord is my shepherd

But I’m still in need. My God,

My soul’s in turmoil and the

Paths of righteousness remain

Untrod. To tell the truth, if I tell at all

I’m sick and tired of my back

Being up against the wall.

Yes I’ve walked through the valley

Of the shadow of death. I’ve seen

The devil and felt his breath

Upon my face in that dreary place.

No sign of rod, no sign of staff,

And pastures green,

 You’re having a laugh.

Dry deserts, just deserts.

I’d have killed for a soothing glass

Of still waters, I could hardly hear

For the raging torrent in my ear.

The table’s set let’s have a feast

My enemies will be pleased and

Well fed too at my expense. Blood

Sugar’s low I’m on my knees and

Waiting for the oil to bring release.

But once again I hear you cry, He

Doesn’t know his cup is dry. And

Surely goodness and mercy have

Passed him by.

 But still I'll be forsaking hell

And know that I will dwell  

in the house of the Lord forever.

Amen.

There's a Brother in the Gutter

There’s a brother in the gutter.

No bread, no butter.

Credit crunch,

No loot, no lunch.

No bed, no sleep,

As he waits for the Lord;

His soul to keep.

There’s a brother in the gutter.

So what you mutter

As you try to pass by

On the other side

Where life is clean.

But down below

The stress is there

But not on show.

Recession, depression

Another day, another session.

No need to feel,

Just feel my need

Down the pub,

In the club.

Another little hungry mouth to feed.

Another day, another drop

Descending still,

When will it stop.

Take in the view,

Reflect, consider

That brother in the gutter

Could easily be you.

No reign on earth

Just rain on his face

No joy, no mirth

No peace, no grace.