CALICO COURT

CALICO COURT

A small shiny booklet appeared through the letterbox

Happily it wasn’t personally addressed at least

This exclusive development for the over-sixties

Has been built about five miles over to the east

There’s daffodils blooming and white haired faces

Fantastic views and impossibly tidy rooms

They all look so smiling in their retirements

Not full of thoughts of their impending doom

The folk seem so happy in the places they’ve bought

Some day we may all end up in Calico Court

It mentions that the final phase has now been released

Which was not the best choice of wording I thought

Though they’ve got a  twenty-four hour call system

Camera entry will give you access to Calico Court

There’s a stunning roof terrace and a family guest suite

An on-site manager, and exterior maintenance

The homeowner’s lounge for meeting new friends

There’s definitely no mention of a barbed-wire fence

Leaflets like this allow too much pause for thought

One day we may all end up in Calico Court

If the nice glossy pamphlet is to be believed

It’s a smiling young model who manages the place

Though the marketing cynic inside me knows well

I’m not sure you’ll ever see her particular face

Easy access to shops in a thriving market town

There’s countryside walks if you’ve still got good knees

If you’ll take advantage of the Green Ribbon Summer

They’ll even stump up some of your estate agent’s fees

Whilst I know it’s unlikely as I’m not quite their sort

I hope I never end up in Calico Court

Martin A W Holmes, June 2017

WORD-WRANGLERS WOES

WORD-WRANGLERS WOES

One problem with word-wrangling

Is that once the words are written down

Dragged out from mind to page

They vanish from the memory

Like a camera-free holiday

Full of fleeting summer clouds

Becoming instantly forgotten

If anyone were to ask me

So it comes as some surprise

When I find them later

And I begin to wonder

Who wrote this stuff

When it was me

Another problem with word-wrangling

Is that before the words are written down

Passed from thought to scribble

They dance around the forebrain

Like a jam jar-entombed wasp

Causing sleep to stay at bay

Worrying they will be forgotten

And dashing to grab notebooks

So it comes as no surprise

When I find them later

And I begin to wonder

Who wrote this stuff

What does it say

Martin A W Holmes, June 2017

HOW MANY LAST STRAWS CAN YOU TAKE?

HOW MANY LAST STRAWS CAN YOU TAKE?

How many "last straws" can you take?

How many mistakes could they make?

The screeching and the self-delusion

That you still believe the grand illusion

The temperature variations

Those infinite vexations

The noise of the machine

The end of the life serene

How many "last straws" can you take?

How many more smiles can you fake?

How many "last straws" can you take?

What stops you from jumping in the lake?

The devaluation and diminishment

Ongoing psychological punishment

Their nicotine distractions

The dismissive reactions

The endless interferences

With no acceptable defences

How many "last straws" can you take?

How many compromises will you make?

How many "last straws" can you take?

What stops you from jumping in the lake?

Made to live close to a turbine all week

By someone who objects to a chair squeak

The proximity of stupidity

The chatter lacking lucidity

Putting up with such nonsense

That only makes you more tense

How many "last straws" can you take?

How soon before you’re bound to break?

How many "last straws" can you take?

What’s that one final piece that takes the cake?

The refusal to pay doctors and nurses

When we’ve all discovered what’s worse is

The billions in cash

They pulled out of their stash

To broker a deal

To govern with zeal

How many "last straws" can you take?

How many "last straws" will we take?

Martin A W Holmes, June 2017

NOISE ABATEMENT

NOISE ABATEMENT

I’d appreciate

If you’d noise abate

Just lower the rate

A little bit, mate

Mind at ease

In still and peace

I know will cease

With your release

Your voice will grate

And resonate

Please be late

It's barely eight

I have no doubt

You’ve no need to shout

Like a drunken lout

Inside voice not out

I’d appreciate

If you’d noise abate

Just lower the rate

A little more, mate

If I seem quite terse

Well it just got worse

This is so perverse

I may have to curse

The fates now scoff

I was once well off

Thought you were enough

Then you brought your stuff

The hum and clatter

Drowns out my natter

Like I just don’t matter

As my nerves you shatter

I’d appreciate

If you’d noise abate

Just lower the rate

Quite a lot more, mate

Sound cuts like a knife

I need a quiet life

Free from noise and strife

Unlike you wildlife

It’s beyond a joke

My nerves you poke

Why can’t you talk

Like normal folk

Oh, holy cow!

I don’t see how

Your constant row

Will ever end now

I’d appreciate

If you’d noise abate

And lower the rate

Shut up, you reprobate!

MAWH, June 2017

IN CERTAIN LIGHT MY HANDS LOOK OLD

IN CERTAIN LIGHT MY HANDS LOOK OLD

The other night whilst reading I noticed

As the shadows grew deeper and darker

With the heat of the day growing so cold

With just that one spotlight sharply burning

Casting around the bedroom a cruel eye

In certain light my hands don’t half look old

The veins stand up like the Appalachians

I’ve textured creases which no longer fade

I’m not exactly rugged truth be told

It’s callous but they have become calloused

Not a hard life but they’ve worked every day

In certain light these hands do now look old

My fingers they are somewhat spindly

Lean and nimble – it’s my artistic ways

I’ve an ink mark - a pen I couldn’t hold

Last week I was bitten by an insect

Now I’m constantly grazing my knuckles

In certain light my hands now look so old

Most of the time nobody would notice

If light’s merciful I think I’m still fine

Get away with it – if I am so bold

Though I will have these little misfortunes

My own talons sometimes do hack at me

So in certain light these hands now look old

Some say it’s the first sign that you’re aging

Getting gnarly in your extremities

Life’s hand suggesting that it’s time to fold

Not believing it could happen to me

I want to close my eyes to this harsh truth

Yet in certain light my hands do look old

Martin A W Holmes, June 2017

SUNDAY EVENING 250617

SUNDAY EVENING 250617

An anxious soup of unstirred air sucks life from me

The greyness of the dawn’s thick sweating blankets

As it’s sitting so heavily with its failed promises

Controlling snoozes call out to me but fail to deliver

One morning - then another - flit unremarkably by

Underneath brushed aluminium, zinc and steel sky

After lying unmoved - the tempting glint of copper

As magically sunlight pulls me outdoors at dusk

Where above the rows of jackdawed chimneys

Evening light is heading out painting the town gold

Whilst shadows dance to sculpt and form the mountain

Wordlessly it tangoes throwing shapes the morning hides

Day’s last searchlight picks out a single pink foxglove

Climbing higher to see the artistry of painted alchemy

The like of which Pollock could have only dreamed

Could you fail to be astonished, exuberant at the sight

Of soaring gulls and crows silhouetted against glorious gold

And platinum night owl flashes fluttering through the trees

Martin A W Holmes, June 2017

A CLOCK AND A SUN LOUNGER

A CLOCK AND A SUN-LOUNGER

On recent dark nights

I’ve found myself thinking

More and more

About my dad

Even though he’s been gone

Thirty years or more

Coming home from school

To see my daddy weeping

Uncontrollably

In his big yellow

Swivel armchair

Which sat in the corner

Of our old living room

Maybe it’s because

I’m now myself reaching

Day by day

The age he was

When he had to retire

Aged just fifty-four

Sent on his way with

A cheap radio alarm clock

He no longer needed

And a garden lounger

Which collapsed soon after

It was his health they said

Or something far darker

As time ticks away

I’ve asked myself darkly

How much more

Time I might have

Given he only had

Some seven years more

Martin A W Holmes, June 2017

POEMCRASH

‪

Last night as I failed to sleep‬
‪Five or more poems‬
‪Crashed in my mind‬

‪Full of rage and fury‬
‪and frustration‬
‪I may have to write tonight‬

THE WEEKEND SWEETS

THE WEEKEND SWEETS

Friday evening he walks home from the office

After his week spent putting stranger’s lives right

Or wrong depending upon your point of view

To his waiting family expectantly anticipating

They’ll gather around for their weekend sweets

What will emerge from his briefcase this week

A bag of lemon bonbons, or strawberry sherberts

Small moments matter like those weekend treats

Friday lunchtime would be spent at the market

Filling the time and buying something useless

From shouting men on bargain bric-a-brac stalls

Eight-track cassettes when we didn’t have a car

Those hand-me-down clothes you brought home

In plastic bags eagerly torn open for the prize

Outfits the adopted African kids had grown out of

Two-tone jeans with flares like Concorde wings

One pair pink and beige another blue and green

With shiny metal studs the like of which I’d never seen

Crazy coloured tanktops, shirts with penny rounds

And the shiniest of lace-ups with heels a mile high

One week a stack of old Beano comics turned up

The children’s home kids had finished with them

They were throwing them out but I stacked the lot

High by my bedside and I read them for weeks

And every week we’d gather for our weekend sweets

Wondering what would emerge from the bag this week

Chocolate footballs, or penguin biscuit mis-shapes

When you’ve not got much you love those weekend treats

Martin A W Holmes, June 2017

MIDSUMMER TURNED

MIDSUMMER TURNED

I find myself‬

‪Looking desperately‬

‪Towards the past‬

‪Since midsummer‬

‪Turned and went the present‬

‪Seems far bleaker‬

Struggling with

The right now deflating

A balloon popped

It feels like‬

‪Something that resembles‬

‪A small breakdown‬

The fatigue comes

Overwhelming the days

Flattening me

Diminishing

All positivity

Like morning mist

Yesterday was

Bad today so far seems

Better or worse

And tomorrow

Will be what tomorrow

Will always be

The past comforts

Days when once I did things

Beacons of hope

MAWH, JUNE 2017

FISHNETS

FISHNETS

Girl in fishnets
How I wonder
How long it took

To get your
Feet and toes
Manipulated

Past all those
Great big holes
This morning

MAWH, 230617

THE RAGING POETS

THE RAGING POETS

The raging poets

Have only their words

To battle with the absurd

Events which occur

In this crazy world

The raging poets

Their policy is

Equal opportunity

When venting their angry

Collective spleens

The raging poets

Care so very much

But they simply do not care

Which side you are on

If you’re in their sights

The raging poets

Have seen enough of

Mankind’s pointless violence

The fury and shame

They know who to blame

The raging poets

Underscore dark truths

Recognise injustices

Highlighting such wrongs

To all who’ll listen

The raging poets

Pick up their pencils

Punching away at keyboards

In sheer frustration

And desperation

The raging poets

Will scream and holler

With their fury and bile -

They sometimes feel

It’s all they can do

MAWH, June 2017

WE SHOULD HAVE LET THEM SLEEP

WE SHOULD HAVE LET THEM SLEEP

We should have let them sleep

Creeping death slips inside

Too quickly up the stairwells

Choking flame seeping stealthily

To knock on bedroom doors

Burst into waiting rooms

No longer living rooms -

It might have been kinder

To let them sleep

I wish we’d let them sleep

Too quietly the bells are ringing

Loud enough to wake the dead

Too soon the people are choking

Above the survival line families

Are awakening

Panicking and dying -

It might have been kinder

To let them sleep

Whilst the guilty city sleeps

Black rain pours down‬

‪From blood-choked skies‬

‪Excuses dripping sound biting

From the Power Shower‬

‪To leave nothing‬ behind

‪But this skeleton tower‬ -

It might have been kinder

To let them sleep

Society remains asleep

To these bitter divisions

Segregating our cities

A better bitter example

Between the lives and deaths

Of the rich and poor

Would be hard to find -

Should you need a reminder

Someone made them sleep

MAWH, June 2017

POWER SHOWER (1)

‪POWER SHOWER

Black rain pours down‬
‪From burning blood-clotted skies‬
‪Like excuses from the mouths‬
‪Of the power shower‬
‪Leaving nothing‬
‪But a skeleton tower‬

MAWH, June 2017

WHEN DOES THE CRYING STOP?

WHEN DOES THE CRYING STOP?

When does the crying stop? When will it all end?

When will all the crying stop? Can this crying ever end?

Another week brings along another tale of woe

Just when you think the hurt has no further to go

Another group of lost faces beaming from front pages

In bewildered incomprehension humanity still rages

Everything they ever were or could ever hope to be

Cut down in another swathe of this endless misery

Reporters leaning in so eager to see more tears

Then ramping up the rhetoric to feed the world’s dark fears

When does the crying stop? When will it all end?

When will all the crying stop? Will this crying ever end?

When does the praying stop? When will it all end?

When will all this praying stop? Can our hearts ever mend?

Pray for London, pray for Manchester, and London again

Cities brought together by having too much pain

Then another city’s burning in this endless insane loop

The rest of us left wondering just how low can humans stoop

Perhaps we haven’t got a prayer by some cruel twist of fate

We all live in an asylum being run by the inmates

Everywhere you turn someone’s preaching yet more hate

Nobody’s got the answers but the question’s come too late

When does the praying stop? When will it all end?

When will all this praying stop? Will our hearts ever mend?

When does the dying stop? When will it all end?

When will all the dying stop? Can this dying never end?

Chunks of steel and sheets of flame cutting down young lives

Madmen running rampant on our streets with butcher knives

Raging flame and smoke choking Kensington’s majority

Vehicles used as weapons as the innocent try to flee

Minds clamped shut blast away with semi-automatics

Whilst the corridors of power echo with empty rhetoric

The same mouths flapping the same meaningless words

In a world turned inside out and becoming too absurd

When does the dying stop? When will it all end?

When will all the dying stop? Will this dying never end?

Martin A W Holmes, June 2017

RED ROSETTES

RED ROSETTES

Red rosettes

Red rosettes

Two women canvassing

Get soaking wet

Door to door

Door to door

They electioneer

Through hard rainfall

Red rosettes

Red rosettes

They get utterly soaked

By a passing car

He got vexed

He got vexed

Because he didn’t like

Their red rosettes

They’re upset

Soaking wet

Yet still proudly wearing

Those red rosettes

MAWH, June 2017

(A short poem inspired by an incident that happened recently involving a friend of ours)

KAROSHI

KAROSHI

The Japanese have a word –

                                    Resolve crumbles

“Karoshi”

                                    Enthusiasm crumbles

For “Killed by your job”

                                    Rage! Rage!

Or…

                                    Back to square zero

Depending on which source

                                    The fear of being stupid

You choose to use

                                    The fear of

                                    DOING something stupid

“Karoshi” might mean

                                    So much to think about

“Working to death”

                                    Freedom or poverty?

Or…

                                    I wish I was brave…

“Death by overwork”

                                    I wish I was confident…

Which is not the same thing

Taking the safe path

Or…

                                    Overwhelmed by fear

“Killed by your day job”

                                    Wondering about

The path not travelled

Which is

Martin A W Holmes, June 2017

DINTING

DINTING

“We’re going Dinting!”

My father said

A million years ago

But he wouldn’t say

What “Dinting” was

Throughout the week

Towards next Saturday

A million years ago

So off a-Dinting we went

That longed weekend

Still full of mystery

To a long-ago day

Spent with old trains

Jumping excitingly over tracks

So recently Beeching’d

A million years ago

We didn’t photograph

That steam-filled day

Of trains and tracks

And railway sleepers

So memory fades

Apart from that phrase

Said by my Dad

A million years ago

Martin A W Holmes, June 2017

POLITICAL SPECTRUM HAIKU (2)

SMARTDUMB

SMARTDUMB

There are smart moves
And there are dumb moves
And I don't think
Rounding up a load of
Angry people
Removing them from
Their families and friends
For things they haven't done
Yet
And putting them together
With other angry people
Whilst making
Their families and friends
Angry too
Is a particularly smart move

Martin A W Holmes, June 2017

BIG LIES

Here's an extension of my earlier poem "Little lies" called, quite naturally I suppose, "BIG LIES" :-)

BIG LIES

Higher placed people tell great big lies

And tend to profit from their porky pies

But if I ever thought that I'd like to try

I'd be kicked out for my own tiny lie

So here is a small word to the wise

Be careful how you choose your lies

The claims about themselves are often fake

If lies are big enough, they’re almost sure to take

Eager fools will believe the lot, for pity’s sake!

Even when they’re a chancer on the make

But if you’re at the bottom of life’s layer cake

Choose both your battles and the lies you make

Those empty promises might drag you all to hell

But ambitious souls weave their tales so well

That gullible folk don’t hear the warning bell

And rich folks’ lies are not so hard to sell

Underlings however, if you must rebel -

Be very wary which lies you decide to tell

Honest folk simply don’t have the knack

Non-professional liars - such skills they lack

If they’re found out they’ll get the sack

They’re told to gather their stuff and pack

Sometimes to tell the truth is the best attack

There are better ways to get your own back

'Cos when those people weave their web of lies

And tell false tales, fluttering their eyes

Honesty sometimes proves a cunning disguise

Designed to bring about the wicked’s demise

So here’s a little piece of advice quite wise

The truth is far better than a pack of lies

MAWH 020617

LITTLE LIES

LITTLE LIES

Higher placed people tell big lies
And profit from their porky pies
But if I ever thought I'd like to try
I'd be kicked out for my tiny lie
So here is a small word to the wise
Be careful how you choose your lies

MAWH 020617

QUICK MORNING POEM 020617

Written on my phone as I perused the news early one summer morning...

QUICK MORNING POEM 020617

Tory papers are now panicking
Twisting the predictable knife
The climate deal is faltering
Which pleases those running
the coal-mining life
Celebrities are avoiding tax
Because they're "better" than you or me
In ways you can't imagine
if you always P.A.Y.E.
Meanwhile touts are claiming tickets
For a sell-out charity gig
Leeching off an opportunity
Like they actually give a fig
The human race at its very worse
Seen on my news roundup today
Sometimes I wish the whole damn lot
Would simply go away

MAWH, 020617

POLITICAL SPECTRUM HAIKU (1)