Published Poems 7

Look At My Collection

Poem First Published  “Poetic Accumulations”  Anchor Books  Feb  1997

Come to my house, come look at my collection;
I’ve saved them all, the big and the small. I have many selections.
All different colours, some round, some square and other shapes;
Some old. Some new, none borrowed and so tapes…

Come to my house, see them all adorned upon my walls.
Some rare one published, printed from 1940’s dance halls.
They’re in 78, 33 and 45 rpm
And cassettes, some CD’s too, I just collect them all.

You may have guessed. Or not. What is my collecting fad.
You. We. Listen to them all every day.
Some of them good. Huh! Some of them bad!

But, I’ll have to let you know
If you can’t see before you go;
Music, yes music is my bag,
I love it all, yes, everything;
Bands, opus musicians who don’t sing;
Rock, blues, folk and classical,
Instrumentals, mood and swing(ing),
Rap (without it’s usual prefixed C), rhythm and soul.
There’s only one thing I hate
It’s when I catch myself singing….

©tcmoon 2011 (1996) 

Her

Poem First Published  “Expressions Of Love”  Anchor Books  Mar 1997

Her, with the gleaming eyes that shine
And hold this serpent of secrecy so dear;

Her, the one whose smile is warm,
Brings goodness and lightness to me here .

Her, the one scattered throughout my dreams
And in her dreams I am her white knight.

Her, whose very presence warms me
And who loves me so, makes my heart, light;

I love. Her.

Her, whose very beauty cajoles my senses
And brings me belonging to her soul.

Her, who captivates an aura that envelops me,
Emanating from deep within her and save me fro the cold.

Her, whose very touch, of kisses tells me
I have become her speciality.

I love. Her.

Her. Whose love for me is plain to see.
Her. She is the one with whom I’d like to be.
Her hair is the frame for such a beautiful picture.
Her, the face that is, that beautiful picture;
Her voice casts a spell I cannot forego.
Her magic simply electrifies me so.
Her. Love is all I ever want for my life, be it long;
Her, is the one I love, she is my own chanson (lovesong).

With her, I want to be until that day I die,
If ever I should lose her, then surely, I will cry… because

I love her.

And does ‘her’ have a name? ask her!
She knows who she is.
She knows I love only her…

©tcmoon 2011 (1996)




Mrs V, My English Tutor…

Poem First Published  “Teaching And Learning”  Anchor Books  Mar  1997

There was a lady I once knew,
A teacher in the school from which I grew.
She taught English among other things, math’s too.

Deputy Head, English tutor, my 3rd year there;
She taught me well (I like to think) encouragement was always there
And that’s why I’m still trying to be published. Oh, I am! To be fair…

…and today I am still doping, exactly that;
All those spelling tests and exams sat;
All those classes, essays, swot? Or  prat?

She was hard and she was fair, Mrs V taught me well;
Her tenacity, leading role, never to fail
And now I hope she’s proud, personally I’d like to tell her – myself.

My vocation, it seems, is to write.
Mrs V must’ve known something back then, was I bright?
Did my aptitude or resolve have a goal firmly in sight?

It’s been 24 (now 38) since I left that school.
I don’t have a big house with a swimming pool,
Nor do I make all the ladies drool (some things will never change!)

As yet I haven’t published my very own book *
Tho’ played a part in many, many faces I took,
So far tho’ she won’t get an autographed copy, take a look,
Cos’ I haven’t quite made the big time and I gave being a cook!

So as I  write, it is with a weary arm,
I will keep writing too. And stay calm
If not for me but, for my old school mar’m!

To Mrs V, I trust you are well.
A life like yours, many tells to tell
And a few successes, to but, to sell.

Thanks for your guidance, I carried on when when I fell,
My only wish to be…

By the way, I can do italics now!

 ©tcmoon 2011 (1996)


What Madness!

Poem First Published  “Special Memories”  Anchor Books  Mar  1997

What madness! What feelings, emotions run high,
The wife, navigator, begins to cry;
The danger is looming, there’s a roundabout ahead.
Good God! Stupid bastard, we could all be dead
And the many signs distract to lines on the road
And that prat in the Sierra, it’s me he wants to goad;
Sitting there in the fast lane at 60 miles an hour,
Christ mate, we’re all going there, this ain’t a frigging race!

Another signpost, another junction, another Robin we pass!
We don’t all want to win but, we don’t want to be last!
Look! There’s a place, a bus going too fast,
Blocking up the fast lane meant for much faster cars…

…and the sun beats down, it’s, hot and sweaty in here,
If it wasn’t for the coppers, I quite  fancy a beer;
Light up a fag, chew on another stick of gum,
Turn up the stereo, get my hood up his ‘bum’,
Tailgating’s the term colloquially sued
But touching her* mate, you’ll be battered and bruised!
Then another sees the 30 foot gap,
Sporty little number, buxom young blonde and a little old bald chap…?

…he thinks he’s better, got a ‘N’ on his plate
And mine being an ‘X’, he doesn’t contemplate.
He’s got to get past, no matter what cost;
But my car is bigger, I’ll show ‘im who’s the friggin boss!

So alongside he comes, he’s running out of road.
Where does he wannabe, up high to God’s abode?
He’ll get a helping hand if he don’t quit this stage
Cos’ I’ll certainly show him why, it’s called road rage!

There’s a hammer under the seat, next one upsets me, I’ll beat!
I’ll stop and, the engine dies.
What’s that? Road rage?
Don’t tell so many life….

*my car
©tcmoon 2011 (1996)




Life In The Fast Lane

Poem First Published  “Life In The Fast Lane”   Poetry Now  Apr 1997

Well, life for me in the fast lane is rather easy,
 Would be watching the 4:10 from Bradford on line twelve
To Birmingham New Cross Street Station.

There I will, or would be, with my stainless steel flask
Tucked inside my Scout anorak that keeps the rain out
And keeps me warm on blustery days at the station.

I’ve broken my glasses again so I’ve used a little bit of masking
Tape to hold them together, tho’ sometimes I can’t see very much
Out of them when the steam trains come hooting into the station.

They don’t use them anymore, not in the fast lane, not like they used
To; but on the fast lane there’s the Intercity 125. It goes along the
Track at such a  speed and never stops these days, at the station.

Yes. I use my bicycle quite a lot these days, but cars are a problem;
I try to pass them when im in the fast lane, sometimes on the M25
And then  I look for a Little Chef or something in a service station.

Mum usually makes my sandwiches but its Bowls week and I know she
Likes to take her dishes along to show everyone. No she doesn’t go
By train, she says she doesn’t trust them. Not in the fast lane.

Yes, I had a girlfriend once. Her name was Doris but we had to break
Up because she said she didn’t like trains. Yes, I know, amazing that.
I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like trains. Only my mum.

I have a bicycle helmet and its super! I can go as fast as I like
And never worry if I fall off or anything. I wouldn’t want to be
Brain damaged now would I?

I went to the cinema yesterday. Mum said I could because I had been good.
She says at 39 I really should know better. All I did was. No, I
Can’t tell you. At the cinema I saw a film called “Trainspotting”.
No. I didn’t like it.

©tcmoon 2011 (1996)

Street Life…

Poem First Published  “Cardboard City”  Poetry Now  April  1997

Take a little trip down, to cardboard city
Where the genre’s somehow lost in meths and self pity
And clowns are very rare, their jokes are less witty,
Here, in this place, inner city? In a city!

This is street life… At its worst.
The underground stations are all fit to burst;
Nomadic beggars, so young. And so cursed,
All lack that mothers bosom on which they were nursed.

See the cardboard city in the cold. In the rain;
The screamers; the dreamers all going, insane;
The junkies, flunkies and their addicts all play that game,
A monkey if you please, to take that psychotic pain.

Where buskers are playing, trying to earn a bob
And hookers in abundance, twenty quid a ‘job’.
The children. Oh, the children, poor little sods,
What happened to this country, given u now, by God?

Street life… It ain’t no longer what is used to be;
The once great adventures dreamed of… By you. By me;
Now, there’s just death and degradation, beyond belief
As we throw another copper to a jackal who never says please.

So, go ahead, take a trip, see the Street Life…
While children cry and men all lonely, without a wife;
And the politicians’ ignorance, un-believed, ne’er seen with their eyes,
While society ponders, complains, sticks in and twists the knife…

Street Life… Certainly ain’t as we would imagine.
Our ignorance towards such plight is, the ultimate sin!
On a course, a battle they, can never win;
They are poor; They are lifeless; Can I do more
As I chuck another copper into a small tin
That sits a ‘front a crippled man, tired, hungry, alive somehow, his
Life having been stolen from him. By what? By society’s war;
Is this Street Life.. ?

©tcmoon 2011 1996)
And Worry Lines…

Poem First Published  “In My Thoughts”  Poetry Now  April 1997

And worry lines congregate
Around my furrowed brow,
Relief enraptures bodily.
And tears come, only now;
To be concerned of one so young,
A bitter taste he left,
A glint of sadness and of pain,
My heart, my senses, bereft.

A lonely road for one to go
And traverse endlessly;
Not finding, yet seems without a care,
Just joy of being free.
And if I go there again,
Discoveries so elemental
And hide behind a shrouded veil
Tho’ still afraid to tell;

Seek thee not this blackened night
As birds fly freely too.
And find ye not, thru’ light of day
No realisation of worry – for you!

Only your voice, now distanced apart, echoes now in ghostly charm,
No letters, no cards, even a call, ruing I that day, my fall;

Those selfish thoughts of foolish things
And cross words once said,
Eventualities it brings.
Think once dear child, nay think twice
For those ye walked away from, and dangers lurking in your path;
Be afraid that death may come…

So worry not my troubled mind
Nor those of who , love me,
Who wait for thee. Behind!

© tcmoon 2011 (1996)



And God Came On Golden Chariot

Poem First Published  “Tapestry Of Life”  Triumph House  April  1997

And God alighted from golden chariot,
There stood upon the naked Earth;
Sacred life behest and scattered there,
My seed I cast and grow, new world.

And life was cast, that die now lost.
Was God really sole Creator?
I canst think only not, for such discord
In God’s image? Nay, such evil tis’ God’s traitor…

Begat His Son, only Son, our Lord, Jesus Christ.
Begat His soul, given unto Earth’s unworthy sinners;
Repent now that day  O golden chariot, taken hence
And maketh Mankind universal winners…

Have faith I say as ye walk’n on in thy lives.
If God is there surely soon now, He will show
That warning hence, ah, now, a new millennia
And a promise of that love we will soon know.

But God is good and we shall be speared,
At least now, so we are led to believe;
Too late the sinners repenting in vain.
Too late the dead now to grieve.

For God came high on golden chariot, flying craft
And stood a while upon the barren Earth.
He gave us life, work to warmth and food,
He gave us all for our new world…

…and soon, once more, again He will appear
And alight from chariot of gold –
To beckon those who have loved Him so,
Tis’ only they who shall grow to be old –

In peace, in Heavenly peace…

© tcmoon 2011 (1996)