Sad Little Kitten
Sad little kitten with nowhere to play, have you forgotten what your mother used to say?
She said you should crawl, scratch, squeal and spit, arch up your back, run circles and have a fit.
It may not be the best of games for a beginner,
but it’ll pass the day and you’ll enjoy your dinner.
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1968
Squealing, prat faced, buttercup smelling ghostie,
walking on silent tiptoes through eerie darkness,
Finding me out under sheets ‘clean on today’
I know you’re there, come out now to reveal your feelings,
emotions and physical attractions you try to hide.
Behind a see-through mist of not there flesh,
nothing to probe at, strike at or set on fire.
I’ll find you out wherever you are,
No blood stained butcher ghost has
ever drifted into my dreams before,
So reveal yourself, may I smell under your armpits
and touch your long colourless hair.
I know your there, you creeping lie, for I the timid, cold sweat frightened guy of dreams, can see your bloodshot green eye!!! DAMNED CAT get off my bed!
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1968
Attention!
Attention!
I hate to mention,
The Queen has died on the job!
‘Twas after the Ball,
A Black Prince did call,
And melted her passion,
With a candlestick knob!
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1967
In My Bad Dream
In my bad dream I saw ...
Rats, king-size, nibbling, noshing sleeping cats,
Goldfish as big as whales eating rowing boats,
Cannibalised pigs eating bacon sandwiches,
Huge oak trees making bird’s nest soups,
Teapots drinking coffee out of sheep dips,
Handkerchiefs blowing their noses on dirty shirtlaps,
Bicycle chains wearing the latest gears,
Swimming Trunks fried in butter and chutney,
Old red buses romancing to folk songs,
Apple pie worms swimming in custard ponds,
Crackling televisions smoking cannabis ciggies,
Teddy bears wrestling with a red army of ants
Crucified fairies barbecued for Giant’s delicacies,
Denim Jeans raving to soul music.
Potatoes crushing beetles to a bloody death.
Sugar plum fairies hugged by a one eyed gremlin,
Tennis balls with chicken pox and warts
Flowerpot men making love with tulips,
Me facing the death penalty for speeding in a pram.
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1968
It’s only me
He who gobbles sleepily noshing his cornflakes, milk and honey,
Gallops half dressed with lunch in hand, through streets of rotting
concrete.
Running, panting, feeling sick, funny, but always saving sweet soul money.
Gasping the scented breeze that awakens him.
It’s just another late date for him to keep with another tampered
daily worksheet,
To toil and slog for another eight hours of existence.
He who climbs and staggers up those dusty routine worn oily stairs,
As if with a far travelled sacred Olympic Torch in a sky reaching,
smooth youthful hand, with tired, bloody, experienced,
sympathetic eyes, orbiting his moony face.
Skipping feet bombing the once a year polished floorboards to the ultimate perch.
The magic wand, that mystic foreman’s touch that commands so many feats of accomplished rubbish, a few kind words never uttered, lingering in a think’s balloon, sewn into a fat backside lining.
Never appreciated comments leave his fat mouth as he garbles explanations like a stuck-up fish.
Leave him be, he’s old, the job’s gone to his head, his insurance for life is waning.
He who rewrites his work sheet just for fun.
Sketching, cartooning, writing, reading, joking, dreaming and sleeping.
Sat there looking between the split panels around the web he’s spun.
Searching for that goal in life, maybe just something daring and exciting round the corner.
He who longs for that home time hour to rush back home to shave,
freshen up, eat and drink, dress for his night trying to convince
himself he’s as good as the guys at his shoulder
Yes, it’s me…The fun loving, adventure seeking, girl chasing man of might.
Sophisticated fool of the two legged rat race in a few more hours of confusion.
On that golden stage. On that slippery, soapy, rungless ladder,
reaching to the uttermost peak of my existence.
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1968
The Old Oak Tree
“Leave me alone!” said the old oak tree.
“For I’m as unhappy as can be.”
(A tear skipped along her weathered brow)
“The Lumberjack wishes me felled to the floor.
He measured me up with his rusty old saw.”
“Yes! – My days are numbered and I’m a cropper,
I dread the day when he flashes his chopper.
It won’t be long now, before,
I’m a four-poster bed or a slamming door.
My sap of evergreen life drains like beer,
It knows too well the end is near.”
“Back into mother nature’s hallowed ground,
Fermenting into the rich soils I shift around.
Sinking with time and ageing with fallouts,
Then they’ll come and even drag my roots out.”
“What will become of the loving young couples,
Who sat at my feet and poured out their troubles.
No longer will they dance with me in the sun,
Chasing beating hearts in moments of fun.”
“How will my leaves caress as the sun sets,
When day darkens and old badgers seek tit-bits,
And when circles of my heart are brutally severed,
Will the lumberjack have a thought for
the nests of the feathered.”
“Down crashing must I fall to a formidable,
spine-chilling … T-I-M-B-E-R … call!”
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1969
Ace of Spades
Chocolate coloured Ace of Spades
with Curtis Mayfield necklace,
Please don’t spit in my angelic viking face,
Remove an image of black’s mean slavery,
Stand up, show your courage and bravery.
Let’s hear your beautiful soulful say,
Move on up, stand up for your rights
in a pure academic way.
Show you’re more than equality,
Support mixed opportunities
,
Escape from downtown poverty.
Clean up the rules, construct prosperity,
Yesterday’s picture was ‘neglected people of black’
Tomorrow is a multicoloured future -
Yes ‘RESPECT’ is now dealt from the pack.
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1970
Craftsmanship
Just right exact to a pinch
Within a thou of the nearest inch
Planed to smoothness, perfectly square
As close as the cutter or knife dare
Polished round every nook, cranny and bend
Time and craftsmanship for hours on end.
Shaped by hand, cut by machine
Everything’s precise spot on and clean
Time to stand back, gaze and admire
The perfection from bright eyes,
Willing hands and surely desire…
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1967
Dawning of my everyday
Cuckoo, c-u-c-k-o-o wafting, winging fluttering lovesongs in neighbours allotments.
Caw, c-a-w jackdaw, hovering, hungry, flying hoboes messaging
Jumpy, bumpy, white-tail rabbit chasing whispering dew from glade to glade.
Sly old fox creeping back to his pining vixen, tired, frightened, soaking wet from night.
Crowing barn cocks with that same old cock-a-doodle
Chortling, pruding wood pigeons, cuddling and loving together high in the safe oak.
Sleepy ducks waking with the lapping of recreational park waters on their oily feathers.
Chinking, chanking hobbling milkman coming up the cobbled pennine lane.
Early morning dustmen yodelling around smokey midden passages and shared bog ginnels.
Whistling loom tuning shiftmen returning on dawes pushbikes to sleep in their daylight parlour.
Crying baby in an upstairs attic window rocked by mum while she shakes her bottle and licks the teat.
Old woman in xmas club brown cardy complaining she can’t sleep nights,
She sweeps the yard clear of yesterday’s dreams,
Lipstick covered fags & beano cut-out Zorrow masks.
Seven o’clock alarm clock starts another long day of training for the eager indentured apprentice.
Coal-tar wet sponge upon my face opens my eyes to race for another 7.15am full bus to town.
The dawn it’s special, it’s beautiful, it’s the smiling fresh towel midwife at birth of day.
The main foundation for one’s dreams, leggo buildings and meccano cranes in the sky.
Heartaches & fears, thoughts & emotions, loves & hates, happiness & kindness.
Dawn opens my front door’s brass sneck to life, it’s just like grandad’s clock chime every day.
Enjoy this treasured moment ‘cos it’s later than you think,
My best shirt’s been borrowed by my brother and it’s in the scullery sink.
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1968
The Gate
I want a new coat, my belly is rotten,
I want some grease, my arms are forgotten,
Don’t lean on me, the strain is bad for my heart, Damned cows they rub me, ‘till I fall apart.
Go on people and leave me open,
The wind will see my heart’s broken,
Boys climb me, their obstacle for fun,
Old men sit to think, when day’s work’s done.
Farmer, farmer tie my chain,
Don’t let the wind hit me again,
For I the gate have feelings too,
I don’t want knocking black and blue.
Sadists please keep off my beaming back,
Don’t whittle me with knives ‘till I crack,
Don’t strain my chain necklace, forever rusting,
My woody feelings, need more than dusting.
No feet to walk the ground,
No mouth to feed, no ears for sound,
How must I breathe without a mouth,
Chained up here, tiring limbs facing south.
With only a heart of good seasoned wood,
Don’t you think, I, the gate,
Did the best I possibly could.
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1967
Grubby Pansy Potty Days
Twitching apron strings strain around aged hips
Time to muck about with fairy wands
Catch flies with ticky-tack paper
Watch the tornadoes on the kitchen floor
See the ‘E’ Type washing powder fight the dirt
Kill the ring of confidence odours
Bake a cake of sawdust and hide the taste with ersatz synthetic cream
Release those cooking fat odours from their prison of
domesticated society
Cut open the purse strings of the automated housewife
See this week’s bargains fill the larder cupboard
Open the guess work gasworks oven door to the goodies.
Watch the rising bread roll become instant flatcake
Rusting electric kettle that never seems to boil
Grease smelling tea towels that never seem to dry
Gold non-spreading butters lumping on bread
Looking like a creased photo of the Morrocon Sahara Desert,
Tea leaves in a stained sink that never rinse away
Tired chapped hands reaching out for hand cream finished
yesterday
Far away is paradise, swaying palms and sun drenched beaches
The shackles and chains remain on the working class kitchen
of unfinished chores.
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1968
Mouse called Terry
There was a little mouse called Terry,
Who always seemed in a hurry,
He searched for cheese,
Till he was on his knees,
And now he’s wrinkled with worry…
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1966
Kinky Town Vicar
A man was reading next to me,
I believe it was pornography.
He indulged a page and gave a shout,
Dropped his pants and flopped out trout.
At first I thought him a kinky town slicker.
But he gave me a wink, It was only the vicar …
He closed the book and and pulled up his drawers,
Did three virgin mary’s and adjusted his bras.
Skipped to the loo with an embarrassed whistle
And gave an old virgin a prickly green thistle.
How odd, I thought, that a man of god,
Could be so kinky and a bit of a sod.
I have to make this admission,
“Last time I go for confession at the mission!”
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1970
Get up lazy (Song)
Get up lazy, see my sack of gold,
Awake to see your dreams unfold,
Squeeze easy government won’t get a cent,
Let’s make haste and get a little spent…
For once we can wallow in champagne and balloons,
We’ll have fairy minstrels humming love tunes,
So clean your muddy shoes,
prepare for the Ball,
Let your imagination wander
hear the angels call.
I’ll make you my queen,
I’ll be a proud king,
Fair maids will serve and bluebirds will sing.
Little brown boys with moonbeams will show us
the way,
Through sweet smelling orchards at the end of our day.
Get up lazy, see my sack of gold,
Wake up now before this dream goes cold,
Get up lazy, let’s forget the chores,
Get up lazy, share this dream it’s yours…
Copyright Author Geoff Walker 1970
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Success ...To laugh often and much “Be a Shepherd not a Sheep”
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