Life… (plus ten)
a collection of verse
by
Barnaby Wilde
Copyright 2011 by Barnaby Wilde
Barnaby Wilde asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Published by Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover picture 'sleeping man with newspapers' courtesy of openclipart.org from
November 1910 edition of the Los Angeles Herald newspaper
Other published works by the author.
A Question of Alignment – a Tom Fletcher novel
I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday – a Tom Fletcher novel
Animalia – a collection of quirky verse with an animal theme
Life… -- a collection of verse on a vaguely 'life' related theme
The Blind Philospher and the God of Small Things -- more verse, with a philosophical theme and bad puns.
Not at all Rhinocerus – a collection of verse with almost no mention of rhinoceros
Tunnel Vision – a collection of longer verses, just as quirky, but with fewer puns and absolutely no rhinoceros
Barnaby Wilde is the pen name of Tim Fisher.
Tim was born in 1947 in Hertfordshire, United Kingdom, but grew up and was educated in the West Country. He graduated with a Physics degree in 1969 and worked in manufacturing and quality control for a multinational photographic company for 30 years before taking an early retirement to pursue other interests. He has two grown up children and currently lives happily in Devon.
Visit www.barnaby-wilde.co.uk for the author's blog and more information about the world of Barnaby Wilde.
A Senior Moment
I caught her eye across the room,
As hard as steel and cold as doom…
… And then she threw her wooden limb,
Which whacked me soundly round my chin.
And as I nursed my aching jaw,
I watched her hop across the floor,
Suspended on her zimmer frame.
But though I scrabbled as she came,
I couldn’t find my other crutch,
And suddenly I felt the clutch,
Of her false teeth upon my ear.
Although I yelled, she didn’t hear,
Her deaf aid had dropped off en route.
I grabbed for her remaining boot,
Just as that orthopaedic gear,
Was swinging at my injured ear.
I twisted hard and down she went,
Her monocle, completely bent,
Sent flying in the general maul,
To crash against the distant wall.
But even this was not the worst,
As her colostomy bag burst,
She yanked the grey wig from her head,
And whipped me with it while she said,
“I’m nearly eighty four you know”.
I cowered ‘neath her feeble blows,
Winded momentarily.
Her gaze, unfocused, wandered free.
One vacant mind, one empty socket,
Her glass eye in my vest pocket.
One leg, one eye, deaf, bald and fat.
This? Just another little spat,
To ease the boredom before tea.
The endless hours of dull TV,
Of sitting, staring into space,
Of waiting out our final days.
Remembering when we were young,
Forgetting to put in our tongues.
Enduring our retirement,
Daily more incontinent.
And after tea there’ll be just time,
For one more harmless little crime,
Another aggravating jape ...
…I’ll hide her eye ball in the grapes.
Tee hee hee!
(November 2000)
Mirror Mirror
Mirror Mirror on the wall,
Why do you make me look so small?
Why etch those lines around my eyes?
What makes you tell me all these lies?
Inside I know I truly am
A lively, tall and handsome man,
But you have robbed me of my hair
And given me a wizened air.
Whose aim is served by this untruth,
This unkind lampoon of my youth?
Inside I glow with healthy tan
But you portray me an old man.
What is this sad joke you indulge
That you must make my stomach bulge?
Why hang those jowls upon my chin
And make my legs so matchstick thin?
And then there are those other tricks,
Where left and right are intermixed,
Yet top and bottom don’t change place.
You mock with time and play with space.
Do you have no sense of shame
To stare at me with such disdain?
Reflecting only double chin
To ridicule the man within.
Do you feel no hint of guilt?
Is this the reason you were built,
To undermine my self esteem
And scoff at my delusive dreams?
Naked in the shower room
I contemplate myself with gloom.
Is this reflection really me?
Where is that boy I used to be?
But condensation brings relief,
As dimming image blurs my grief.
And if I close my eyes a bit…
…I am still young, tanned, slim and fit.
(January 2001)
Come in Number Nine, your time is up
Hey there. You with your nose in the air.
You with your feet on the ground.
Have you ever thought you might be
Living your life upside down?
When you’re in love are there wings on your heels?
Do your feet touch the pavement at all?
How do you walk with your ear to the ground,
And still keep your eye on the ball?
When you have a cold does your nose ever run?
Do your feet ever smell (tell the truth)?
It sounds to me like you’re built in reverse.
What else do you need as a proof?
Have you ever put your foot in your mouth,
Or tried to stand on your own head,
While keeping your nose to the grindstone?
Can there be any more to be said?
You say you’ve a nose for a bargain.
You say you’ve an ear for a song.
But I think you’re base over apex,
Head over heels, just plain wrong.
Maybe you think it’s no problem,
But when stood to your ankles in shit,
It’s a matter of utmost importance
Which way up you are standing in it.
When you’re told to come in, that your session is done,
Just be sure that you’re not counter clockwise.
Much better to be number nine right way up,
Than be six who has recently capsized.
(October 2001)
Toga party
‘Fancy Dress essential,’ the invitation said.
The Theme was printed just above the ‘Fifty quid a head.’
‘Admission is restricted to those in masquerade.’
(Please ensure that cheques are crossed and monies promptly paid).
Now despite the allegations that a nasty few purport
I deny that I have ever been the party pooper sort.
I phoned around for ages to locate the right disguise
And it was no easy matter finding something in my size.
I realised my error much too late to make retreat,
Though awareness had been dawning as I walked in from the street.
I could see into the ballroom as we shuffled into line
To be announced at the reception and collect our glass of wine.
There were ministers and councillors and minor screen celebs
Dressed as legionnaires and senators, centurions and plebs.
Magistrates and chancellors cocooned in double sheets,
Impersonating emperors, with sandals on their feet.
The flunkey looked me up and down as I removed my cloak
And did a sort of double take before at last he spoke.
‘My Lords and Ladies,’ he began, then loudly cleared his throat,
‘The Dyslexian Ambassador, … accoutred as a goat.’
(January 2001)
Where do socks go?
I lost a sock again today.
That isn’t what I meant to say.
My grammar, somewhat imprecise,
Suggests I lost the same sock twice.
For though I searched (and mildly cursed),
I didn’t ever find the first.
Which antecedent must perforce
Recur before more loss (of course).
But now tautology’s set in,
I don’t know what’s the worser sin.
(Should that be which not what? I wonder),
And what about that other blunder?
Which is badder, what or worser?
More worse which or vice versa?
Nad now my spleling’s gone to cock
And all because my sodding sock
Has disappeared, but is it lost
Or just mislaid? Has it been tossed
By careless hand to land unseen
Where vacuum cleaner’s never been?
Some dusty gap behind the door?
Or simply fallen on the floor
Between the drier and the sink
To lie in darkness? Whadd’ya think?
Again, I lost a sock today,
But I shall have to let it lay,
Oh, here we go, should that be lie?
Please, where do socks go when they die?
(October 2000)
Erratum
Yesterday, at half past three,
I nearly saw a chimpanzee.
I almost phoned to tell you so,
But then the moment seemed to go.
I almost phoned again today,
But didn’t have a thing to say.
You say that you were all alone?
You should have said. I nearly phoned.
This afternoon, at ten to four,
Just guess at what I nearly saw.
A hippo flying down the street
With small pink wellies on it’s feet.
I nearly rang you there and then
Until the moment passed again.
You feel depressed? I’m quite appalled.
You should have said. I nearly called.
An hour ago, at nine o’clock,
I almost had a nasty shock.
I nearly saw two elephants
In lacy bras and sequinned pants.
I would have rung you at the time,
But somehow it just slipped my mind.
You say you wish that you were dead?
I nearly phoned. You should have said.
Tomorrow when it’s five past two,
I wonder what I’ll nearly do.
But even if a blue giraffe
Should skate board down my garden path
And crash into the picket gate,
I cannot phone you. It’s too late.
I wonder …
… Would you have made a different choice
If you had heard a friendly voice?
(April 2001)
Erratum: For nearly or almost read didn’t throughout.
Higher thoughts
I’m not a hostage to fancy or fashion.
Designer names stir no passion in me.
Star endorsed logos invite my derision.
It’s value for money that’s my kind of chic.
I do not covet a customised auto.
I have no craving for off road pursuits.
All that I need is four wheels and motor,
(Though I’ve always fancied some Cuban heeled boots).
…….Yes, just give me a pair of those Cuban heeled boots.
Who needs an armful of Rolex wristwatches?
What would I do with an Armani suit?
A beer is as good as a single malt scotch is,
But oh! for a pair of those Cuban heeled boots.
You can keep your tuxedos, silk and alpaca.
I’ll pass on champagne for a nice cup of tea.
I’ll forgo caviar for some cheese and a cracker.
Those two inch stacked heels would satisfy me.
…… Yes, a pair of those heels would satisfy me.
It’s not that I’m vain or craving attention.
I can live with a set of anonymous wheels.
I don’t need gadgets or modern inventions.
A pair of those boots would do nicely for me.
I have no wish for millions of dollars,
Nor fifteen minutes of fame on tv.
But I wouldn’t mind being two inches taller,
And those Cuban heeled boots would just do it for me.
….. Yes, those Cuban heeled boots would just do it for me.
(May 2001)
Xmas is pants
Is it pushing your thumb up a turkey’s bum after drawing it’s private parts,
Or the novelty verse that’s been hyped to be first to the top of the yuletide charts?
Is it counting the yards of robins on cards to see who’s got the most,
Or lazy daze through an alcohol haze that’s paid for by your host?
Is it festive lunch with the same sad bunch you toiled with all last year,
In the works canteen that has hurriedly been decked out with seasonal cheer,
Or taking a chance at the factory dance when everyone’s totally caned
- A hand up the skirt of the office flirt and getting a slap for your pains?
Is it three balloons in a small lampoon of phallic imagery,
Or trying to wedge through a fairy’s legs the top of a plastic tree?
Is it trying to staunch your grumbling paunch that’s begging for some relief
for an hour and a half in a school hall draught while your kid plays the part of a sheep?
Is it numbing your butt while unshelling nuts surrounded by debris and trash,
Or failing to stop all that trudge round the shops endlessly shelling out cash?
Is it fights among spouses on which parent’s house is due for the visit this time,
Or stopping at home all alone on your own with a limp paper hat and a vodka and lime?
Is it getting pleasure from bringing a measure of joy to somebody else,
Or are you disgruntled that their little bundles were better than you got yourself?
Is it feeling miffed that you got the wrong gift from one of your distant aunts,
When you opened the box expecting new socks but found that this Xmas was totally pants?
Do we actually hanker to find ourselves anchored in front of repeats on tv,
Or does pressure from peers compel us to fear disapproval if we disagree?
Is it really the season of true love and reason; quality time amongst those near and dear,
Or just an excuse for all the abuses of overconsumption committed each year?
(December 2000)
A Gneiss Romance.
I found a little pebble that I’m keeping as a pet,
He’s hiding in the corner, much too scared to come out yet.
If I treat him kindly then before he gets much older,
I hope he’ll learn to trust me and become a little boulder.
He’s very nearly round in shape, with just the merest knobble,
I like to roll him down a slope to watch my cobble wobble.
We run together in the park to keep our muscles honed,
Once he overdosed on grass and got a little stoned.
We chill out in the evenings with some music - jazz or soul.
Sometimes we play a little blues, but mainly rock and roll.
He tells me all the things he’s done, about life in the shingle.
I recall the girls I’ve known, the joys of being single.
He says he’d like to settle down, to put an end to travel.
Maybe find himself a mate and hear the pattering of gravel.
I took him to the coast today, waves washed him from my reach.
I guess it’s true for pebbles that life really is a beach.
(October 2000)
A Gneiss Romance 2
She’s fallen in love with a garden gnome,
Even though he is wizened and small.
For size isn’t everything, mother told her,
And the difference in age matters hardly at all.
( Between you and me he’s a hundred and three
And she’s only seventy nine).
She knows he’s hirsute, but he’s cuddly and cute
With a boot on his wee rod and line.
But she frets for her elf as she sleeps by herself
When he’s out in the wind, rain or shine.
( She lies and fidgets, while her little midget
just smiles through the frost and the rime).
His paintwork is flaking, but her heart is aching
For romance and passion and love.
His smile may be frozen. He sleeps with his clothes on,
But she’d thaw him out soon enough.
( What a blessed relief is a woman's belief
That she'll change a man over time).
(January 2002)
Are we nearly there yet?
When I was one I was barely begun,
And when I was two I was nearly new,
But now that the spring of my life is …, well, sprung,
I can no longer kid myself that I’m still young,
But how will I know when I’m old?
When you consider you’re not fully dressed,
Unless you put on at least one thermal vest,
And the waist of your trousers is up round your chest,
That’s how you’ll know that you’re old.
But I’m not really ready to curl up and die.
I still like to watch the young women walk by.
The problem is that you can’t recall ‘why’,
That’s how you know that you’re old.
But I’m not over the hill just yet.
Everyone has things they sometimes forget.
But when it’s your teeth it’s a ten to one bet,
That’s when you know you are old.
I know that I’m still a young person inside.
But you sleep in the chair with your mouth open wide,
And your teeth sleep alone in a jar on the side.
That’s how you know you are old.
When you’re invited upstairs for sex,
And you find that the thought which occurs to you next,
Is you can’t manage both and you’re not even vexed.
That’s how you’ll know you are old.
Things were much better when I was still young.
We’d button our lip and hold onto our tongue.
We respected the elders that we were among.
That’s how I know I am old.
When I look in the mirrow expecting to see,
Myself; but an old man looks back towards me.
When Countdown’s my favourite thing on TV.