Grumbles

A Drivers Graveyard

There’s an anger residing in hospital car parks
A hive of resentment for all that reside there
Centrical drivers in neat little boxes
Filling with fury while waiting for spaces
The stationary lane of vehicle drop offs
Stuck in defiance, wavering conventions
Growling at patients for daring to enter
A system denying all logic or sense
With scandalous charges for family penance

Night Terror -Draft

It happened again – my words disappeared
Just like the night once before
I’m sure they were there
all typed and prepared
and left all alone in a drawer
Sometimes they stay
and sometimes they go
Sometimes they just fall apart
I’m left with some words
It just seems absurd
but sometimes they expand and grow

I really should take stock
of all words and phrases
poured onto paper at night
but sometimes i’m dreaming
and sometimes they’re screaming
and sometimes they’re there
– and i’m not.

Yet now i’m all confused
all twisted and tangled
i’m pondering where can it be
There now is a title
yet i’m so confangled
cos nothing is in the body
I remember I wrote verse
It was there in my WordPress
that’s now a glaring blank slate

What I have is ironic
I blame electronics
and hazily pressing a save
All I have is the title
and no clear recital
a vague memory of the night
With old faithful Biro
there was none of this error
just old fashioned words
and smudgy “Night Terror”

The Harpy Upstairs

The high pitched shrill, the clog of feet
Signs of neighbours home
Try as I might, I just can’t write
For bristling at her tone
She squeaks and screams just like a child
That’s tickled constantly
The nasal sound, heard through the ground
Instills a chill in me
I cringe to hear her loud fake laugh
The shrieking makes me growl
I wonder if she’d carry on
If she could see my scowl

Waiting room blues

It’s the smell of it…
Bleach and anti tobacco air freshener
Wafting under unplucked nostrils
Encouraging sneezes to dole out lurghee

From the middle aged man in the black cotton suit
shuffling uncomfortably
To the crazy bag lady from number forty three
Still hollering at the receptionist for losing her forms

It takes all sorts

They wander in
and out of this hive of necessity
Swaddled in winter clothes to stave off the cold
Even though its twenty degrees outside
Yet little good it does them
When seated in the cramped sweat box of a room
Accidentally being coughed on by pensioners
And touched by sticky fingers
stretched out from ridiculously large pushchairs
Tiny lungs piercing ear drums
A generic wince shared by all.

Some days are like that

Some days it fits
Everything falls into place
Neatly, precisely
Each component slides
Inside predetermined slots
Like a perfect Tetris score
An endless game of snake

Some days it all works
Like its supposed to
With a clear aim in mind
The day hurtles towards its goal
Firm in the knowledge
there will be no hitches
No hidden surprises, no sudden flaws

Some days are like this
Today, is not such a day