A Glutton's Lament

This poem had been just a single line for quite a while and I couldn't get the hook to do the rest. then I heard the brilliant John Shuttleworth's "Mingling with mourners" (listen here) and that did the trick. This isn't me - honestly! - it's that voice inside me that I think we all have and which most can keep under control most of the time. The greedy, selfish, apethetic voice that is the scourge of humanity.

A Glutton's Lament

When you're invited to a funeral
And then on to the wake
Do you wonder what the food's like?
Will they have chocolate cake?

When you get there how quickly
Is it socially allowed
To dive into the buffet
To beat off the starving crowd

You'd rather it be someone else
That started the stampede
The respectful yet hurried shuffle
To get stuck into their feed

If it's a stingy family
Who'd rather keep more cash
For themselves than spend it
On a decent funeral bash

Then make sure that you're in early
Pick out the decent nosh
Chicken legs, vol-au-vents
Anything that's posh

If there's lots of oldies
Their appetite's not great
You might get round for seconds
Fill up another plate

But if you've got a family
That's picked a good supplier
A massive spread with loads of stuff
then pile your bowl up higher

"Yes, Auntie Jane, it's very sad"
You say between each chew
You're eyeing up the cheeseboard
the Stilton, Blacksticks Blue...

Then when everybody's gone
The last few mourners left
There's sandwiches aplenty
Do you think it's really theft

To take a little extra
To have for later on
When you're sat watching telly
With your pyjamas on 

Then you remember you need something
that will your supper snare
You really, really, really wish
you had some Tupperware

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

Dear Cancer

I decided to try a "poetry prompt" from the internet. I picked one that suggested writing a letter starting "Dear..." where the writer and the receiver were in conflict so it wasn't really "Dear" at all.

This is it.....

Dear Cancer
I am writing today to ask if you will
be a bit more careful about who you kill

In fact, I'd consider it long overdue
if you decided that killing was just not for you

If you could retire from your morbid old task
And take a permanent break, that's all that I ask

If you took a vacation, and never came back;
I might even generously cut you some slack.

I'd argue perhaps it's not really your fault
We don't help ourselves - but just call a halt

We have our poor lifestyles of that there's no doubt
But children, Cancer, what's that all about?

You show no mercy, so why should I?
You don't care if we live or we die 

So don't take offence, but I long for the day
When you just quietly slip far away

Flee, split, depart, scram, or just scoot
Walk, run, swim, hop - I don't give a hoot

So please, and without any further ado,
just go away, Cancer; we'll do without you.

Yours faithfully....



(C) Tim Fellows 2017

345

No spitting was allowed on tram 345
as she wended her way
under leaden Leodensian skies
to Roundhay via Harehills

A pre-war relic
broken down and
discarded in the sheds
She waited

While her siblings
were replaced on the shiny
tracks that glistened with
the remnants of drizzle
in the pale morning sunlight

The bell rang one last time
for the hard-working
electric carriages
as they were dispatched for scrap

Except for 345;
rescued and sent to
the verdant Derbyshire peaks
to live with her multi-coloured
cousins

Restored to glide past trees
and farms
Views so very different
to those

seen by workers at the factories,
mothers shopping and
bankers bound for
suburban teatime
from the bustle of the city.

Filled now by tourists
the old lady trundles her way
up and down the hill
and still insists that
no spitting be allowed
on tram 345

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

Cumulonimbus

Cumulonimbus

The black cloud is coming
I feel it faintly at first like
the drops of rain before a storm
the harbinger
of possibilities
that no-one wants

Then it fades and I breathe
it's not coming today
but soon it's back
I can feel the icy fingers
dragging at my soul

I want to fight
I know I must
for the sake of others as much as me
But part of me welcomes it
Bringing its self loathing
Its doubts and fears
and smothering me with them

Inside the cloud you
see only yourself
the rest is noise
You can only wait
and function, or not,
until it decides to go

Drifting away and
revealing the light
the joy of life can slowly return
as melancholy is banished
until the next time
the unwanted guest
creeps slowly into your mind

#MentalHealthAwarenessWeek

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

The Man In the Shed

The Man In The Shed

The man sits in his shed with its orderly tools
He's following his own best gardening rules
Developed over decades in his personal lair
Tending flowers and veggies with such loving care 

His allotment is rented, his terraced house too
He doesn't own much, not been able to
A labourer for all of his long working life
Supporting his family, two kids and a wife

The kids have long flown and his wife died last year
He treats himself to an occasional beer
His shed is his comfort now, all he has left
His planting and cutting surprisingly deft

For a man whose hands were calloused and rough
From a job whose hours were long and so tough
His dog at his feet as he sorts through his seeds
He drinks tea from a flask before clearing the weeds

In the beautiful Cotswolds a different man stands
Admiring his shed that cost twenty-five grand
He's not employed any more, that is true
I wonder what he might be planning to do?

This man with his education so fine
The finest of clothes, the finest of wine
He worked his way up to the absolute top
Without ever suffering a lowly paid job

He gets a fat deal for writing a book
I wonder how he'll make himself look?
Stabbed in the back by his so-called mates?
Failing to win the important debates?

He sits in his shed and ponders his life
With his beautiful home and his very rich wife
Thinking about how he'll justify
His terrible record and all of his lies

In their private dens the men are found
With very little common ground
Both men in sheds but worlds apart
Different brains and different hearts

(c) Tim Fellows 2017