Unfinished Poem

There's some mold in my sink
that's making a most terrible stink.
It most probably reached this condition
due to my ongoing and long-standing tradition
of not caring one jot.

Imagine on Tuesday my surprise
when from the mould, life did arise!
Squeaky-high voices at first,
I thought Schizophrenia! or worse-
but then I realised where it came from.

By Wednesday noon, an ambassador came out
and started to shout-
we want our independence
for us and all of our descendants.
So I said I'd think about it.

So in the mean time

by about Thursday teatime
the ambassador returned and placed in my hands
a list of their demands
I said "My god, you're so small."

He said "So what do you think?"
I said "I'm amazed you can get out of the sink-
What are you a millimetre tall?"
The ambassador seemed appalled.
I think I hurt his tiny feelings.

On Friday morning
suddenly without warning
the mould declared war
and by about a quarter to four
I had just about managed to stop laughing.

Saturday, half past five
I was now not so amused, but still alive
But the kitchen sink goo
had signed a unified treaty with some gunk from the loo
And things were starting to look hairy.

Sometimes I Start a Poem and it Just Has to be Stopped

I remember like it was yesterday
Memories like these just don't go away
Not without years of therapy anyway
There's more fish in the sea, or so they say

But you were the one for me

There I was, strolling through the park
With no way of knowing you were about to claim my heart
When suddenly I heard a bark
I looked round and saw you tearing a dog apart

with your bear hands............because you are men-tal.

I admired you, full of grace
as you wiped some puppy from your face
.........

"Overheard Poetry"

Don't get excited, it's not nearly as interesting as it sounds.

A few years ago, I had this zaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaany idea to write down or record any words, sentences, or snippets of conversation that I heard from passers-by, in a predetermined length of time or over the length of a journey.

Not their whole conversation or anything like that (I'm not MENTAL), just a line or word that clearly stood out from the rest of the background noise.

It made perfect sense at the time.

Anyhoo, some were made in coffee shops, supermarket checkout queues, etc. I came across one the other day that had been scribbled down while walking home from town.

Each line or word was spoken by a different person, and was overheard as I walked past them. Written in the exact order that it was heard.


"Swinging your glow sticks 'round with gay abandon"
"You've done what?"
"It's not busy out there"
"We can do it tomorrow"
"Bye!"
"I'm alright thanks"
"Get away from me"
"I'm stuck! I'm stuck!"
"Who told you that?"
"Do you think my chair ballet will catch on?"
"Uh-huh, oh yeah, alright"
"Okay, you're gay"
"Because this was Julia's first night"
"English to Japanese"
"Oui"
"It's like....."
"Right now I'm stepping into a yard"
"She's really massive"
"You can't beat them"
"Left-handed, one-handed for a fiver"
"They're alive, it serves you sodding right"
"In heels, stilettos"
"All the way down to Hell"


Well! What a fun little project that was. It makes you wonder just what on Earth most of us are talking about while we're wandering around.

Or is that just me?

(I'm not crazy.......)

Heron

The Heron so beautiful
as it perches on the hedge.
Eying up the pond
and the fishy Universe that lies inside.
A galaxy of food
as you spy a planet to pluck
the fish have no concept of what you are
to his friends, your dinner will have died of natural causes.

In Snow

All of us making the best of this Winter wonderland
having to clear paths through snow, shovels in hand.
Houses full of tins,
boots on,
layered up,
Brandy inside us.
Digging in like Hoth Imperial assault survivors.

I like to think of all the families spending this time together,
trapped and forced to, due to this horrible weather.
And people of all faiths and races
coming together to throw snowballs into children's faces.

Ingrith Deyrup-Olsen

Most of us will end up inside a box
or scattered, sprinkled and given to the mist.
Maybe if we're lucky we'll die an interesting death
or enigmatically
never be found
Sometimes after we're gone
we can be found again
visited again
missed again
even by people we haven't known.

I found you in America
in Seattle
in an old waterfront warehouse
in a fascinating junk shop
in a boring white cabinet
in a large white drawer.
Such an unassuming casket
such an invisible mausoleum
of the departed
the dead
living within
trapped within
recorded within
hundreds of black and white photographs.

A drawer of the deceased, discarded and forgotten.
Pictures of pretty faces
sad faces
some scary faces
young and old faces
places
with snow
sea
cars that were owned by old faces
with old hair
and old clothes.
Weddings
anniversaries
holidays
birthdays
but no funerals.
But then these were all photographs of funerals.
Rescued from deceased estates,
the photographs wait for the living
the curious living to spend some time with them.
Stay with them awhile.

And in that drawer, I found a photograph
of a lady with a loving face

a happy face
a curious face.
You were a professor
a zoologist
a lover of life
and encourager of science and students.
You liked slugs
and studied slugs
I like banana slugs
I wish we could have met properly
as I have many annoying banana slug questions.

But photographs can't really talk.
They just exist to eventually remind us that the dead once existed.
That these paper people were once flesh
and had dreams that spread far beyond a junk shop drawer.
Beyond my hands.

One day,
If I am lucky,
my photograph might reside inside a drawer.
Where I can be visited by new people.
And they will witness old events for the first time.
My life

an age
in photographs.
before my life was recorded in data.
I'm afraid that hard drives and memory sticks don't attract the curiosity of the passer-by
like the immediacy of photographs
of long-dead people

in drawers
in junk shops
in warehouses
in Seattle.

You keep your heart
for someone who,
used to love you,
like I love you.
But in my heart there's one regret,
why is my love so easy too forget?



My Dad wrote this in a note to my Mum.

The 'too' drives me crazy.

Canadian Library Poetry Improv

I'm sat here in this library
On station number four
not the kind with trains and shit
and I've been sat here once before.
This station has a network filter
so I can't look at certain sites
one's with words like Donkey Come
Blue Tits and Wank and Shite.
But I guess I have to make the best of things
and just do what I can.
And try to ignore fart arse next to me
and next to her, the coughing man.
I know people get sick all the time
but it's really not much fun.
So I'd like to stay at station four
not station H1N1.
So now I turn to poetry
as I often do
when I have to escape from boring stuff
and things that make me blue.
I would love to say I'm being productive
but I know that isn't true
the only thing that I'm creating
is pointless, wordy poo.
And I really am not proud of that-
the whole thing with the wordy poo.
I really should be more wordy.
I just don't feel in the mood.
So I'm sat here in the library
trying not to get sick,
thinking of beating up the coughing guy-
with a candle-stick.....

Unfinished 1

Mum! Dad! Come on let's go!
Wake up. Look outside.
There's snow!
At least I think there's snow?
I'm colourblind to greens,
so it could all be lawn out there, who knows?
Come on! Wake up.
It smells cold out there.
We can play and have fun.
I'll get my lead from downstairs.
Actually that's tough, it hangs on the hook.
Hey dad, wake up, get my lead
Please don't make me beg
I mean plead.
Dad! Mum! That's it, a leg.
I'll grab it and pull
If that doesn't work, I'll try the head.
Finally. We have movement.
He gets up, steps on squeaky ball.
I put that there.
He looks down on me-
he's tall.
I'm less tall.
I always look up to him.
It gives me a bad neck some days.


Dad showers while I pace the floor.
He marks his territory in the bathroom
so I just pace a little more.
I can wait
The snow won't run away.
It usually lasts weeks or more


in dog years anyway.
I scratch my collar
argh-this is a good one.
You can't beat a good scratch-
followed by a long run.
DAD! Come on!
That's it, he's ready
Coat on, we're out the door.
It IS snow! Not lawn.
Wicked.
It melts on my nose
and tickles my toes.
And there's snowmen to pee on all day.
So we head to the park
where I hear other dogs bark
sounds of joy and happiness and play.
Happy chat of chasing things, leaping snow and ice covered fur.
Except for the terrier from number 4
who whines of some inhumane procedure-
That the vet has in store

for him next week.
Poor kid.

About a dog

You are a doggie
all cute and covered with fur
When happy,
your tail wags,
you yap,
when angry,
ears prick up, then you grr.
You like the simple things
like a walk,
things that squeek,
a tummy rub,
and your red lead,
that mum uses to take you walkies
it was bought by the one called Steve-
mummy’s friend that doesn’t come around anymore,
so now you sleep back on her bed
and not upon the floor.
And you love that when you wear your lead
it’s a sign of things to come,
Walkies,
lamposts,
and going for a run.
And today is such a great day
because on Tuesdays it’s the park.
With lots of other dogs to smell
and trees with hint of wee upon their bark.
But best of all
is that object of joy
it’s green,
furry,
goes by the name of Tennis-
it’s a BALL!
YOUR ball.
Mummy holds it in her hand
you stand,
look up,
move tail,
await command…….
‘Sit!’
You obey.
Bum meets ground,
the grass tickles your bits,
but not those that the vet took-
they'll never be found.
Not like this ball
that with a,
‘FETCH!’
Mum hurls through the air-
you tear off after it!
you have to get there!
get underneath it!
catch it in your teeth!
But you never make it….
‘cause you have teeny tiny legs
and only two inch feet.
But that’s ok,
you can grab it as it rolls.
Chasing it is half the fun
You quickly scoop it up,
Squeeze triumphantly,
take it back,
present it to Mum.
And with a ‘Good boy!’
She throws the ball again-
You hurtle off after it!
But wait!
You can’t see it?
where is it then?
You look back at Mum,
with the ball still in her hand
she’d sold you a dummy
that’s why it didn’t land.
Mummy is so clever.
She shops for other humans,
gets paid lots of money too.
you guess that all the humans like to have things like you,
that roll,
and squeek,
to chew.
But I bet she doesn’t play with their balls
that fun's reserved for you,
and for Steve-
who doesn’t come around anymore,
since the night Mummy hurt his balls with her knee.
And called him a creep.
Or something like that?
A two-timing bastard.
A liar.
A rat.
And lots of other words
that you’d never heard before,
as she kneed him in his playthings,
then pushed him out the door.
He left his red lead behind though
which is great for days like these.
‘Hey Mummy, stop texting’ you bark.
‘And throw the ball again please’