Tag: poem

The Dove From Above

Posted on by Andrew Mark Watkins

This is England!

Where the glass is half-full and the beer is warm

Where the cricket is crease worn and the diapers dry

You’ll never look into his eye again you miserable squirt

Until you’re face down in the dirt, mopping floors and doing dishes

the english way.

What a man said before he got into bed

suddenly everybody knows

whats in his head and the calculation he shows

must be wrong. I’ll never ever believe it!

Until the day it happens.

Their dangerous eyes prying

The terrorist cries ‘Alah Uh Akbar’

Before blowing himself up a balloon

to celebrate his daughters birthday

The Mason/Dixie Line

Posted on by Andrew Mark Watkins

How will I know when i have crossed? There will be a sign. If I’m on the road that is. Anyway, I live in Birmingham not somewhere in America. Unless it’s in my head. Better not say that. 

Mark Knopfler, Crosby Still and Nash. Not usually on my playlist but what the hell am I talking about. I listen to ALLsorts! But it’s not in my head. The sign. But if it’s not that’s where it BELONGS. How else will we know when we have crossed? 

Andrew Watkins 2020

The Tube

Posted on by Andrew Mark Watkins

They have their houses, I have the tube

I have a grip, they have a grip; it’s the same

but that’s where the difference ends

and the similarities begin

We eat, we cry we are loonies upstairs

We shed, we try and tell little white lies

And when it’s all over we like to have a bath

Am I talking to you yet?

You lied (again) over that thing

and thought nobody knew

that you kept it hidden from view

Am I talking to you yet?

Across the seas you paddled in that boat

where dead people float and the sharks await

those who lied again and again and again

over such a little trivial thing

Am I talking to you yet?

We knew you’d come round in the end

Now it’s all over we can all have a bath

until the next thing

Am I talking to you yet?

We spent a whole night thinking about it

and we realised that you are not to blame

so there is no need to live in shame

over such a trivial little thing

Am I talking to you yet?

You know that thing? The one thing we know?

Well that’s not all we know about you

and the other things

Am I talking to you yet?

You’re bad but not a terrorist at least not yet

But those other things tell us

its not uncountable for this to add up

We know about these things

Am I talking to you yet?

We know that in a former life you were a star

Am I talking to you yet?

2020 Andrew Watkins

Out of Shielding Poem

Posted on by Andrew Mark Watkins

Out of shielding at last

‘Out?: she asked with a gasp.

I think you’re being deliberately obtuse

For it’s not my mouth that been out of use

It’s the pubs that are closed

and the dentist too

No more people asking to use the loo

We’ve been busy during our shielding

Doing decorating and jobs that needed doing

In fact, it feels as we’ve almost caught up

Now I can get into church gain

something something something heaven!

A poem i wrote for my Mom coming out of shielding!

© Andrew Watkins 2020

FMCG

Posted on by Andrew Mark Watkins

Buoyed up by abbreviations

and a sense of only apathy

I wander to gaga

Send them into space at speed

and imagine they are treated

like some alien race

The talking bed who only speaks terrestrial

The kettle that only boils

The toaster on a short fuse

Perhaps one day they will learn

how to communicate like us

say the aliens over cheese

and alien crumpets

Somewhere on the planet

someone has made a discovery

He is human afterall

Perhaps he could interperet

between these contraptions.

and the home planet

and then lead a mission for the aliens

Then he would not be the lien

but a toaster human

A quick poem by Andrew Watkins © 2020

Asleep In The Club

Posted on by Andrew Mark Watkins

Up before dawn to line up outside
the raining shining hard on the pavement
Did I forget something or is it my brain?
Skyscraper babies
Cloning of our lives
Ourselves mere reflections
of a consumer society
gone wrong, consuming itself like a phage virus
spitting out excretions of individuality
to be consumed like cupcakes
bought at your local patisserie
itself a symbol of rebellious
machinations carried out
under the cloak of privacy
all that is allowed is fake
by those getting it right
themselves spitting bile
at those recumbent losers
who dare to question the status quo
Is it our passions alive with flame
or is it just a stupid game played out in the schoolyard?
where water flies and extinguishes doubt, reason, doubt
the one thing that sets us apart from the apes
is our art, our reason, our lives.

 

©Andrew Watkins 2020

A Sand Shark

Posted on by Andrew Mark Watkins

A lost man, a sad man
a shallow man, a bad man
a quiet man, a shy man
a funny man, a queasy man
Which man?
A sharp knife, a bread knife
a paring knife, a life knife
a David bowie knife, tonight wife(knife)
a porcupine, a schnitzel
a Pop! goes the weasel
a morning, a snoring
and a bedtime drink
for breakfast, for elevenses
for a brunch for the senses
for women and men
of all ages
colours
race
creed
0
1
0
0
0
1
0
1
00
Good Morning!

 

Andrew Watkins 2019