The question as to whether
He’d written the thing himself
Remained unanswered, and puzzled
A few in fascination

Those in line before him
Had surely been clever men
Top in their class, at least for lack in wherewithal
Call it a threat to his becoming

A fulfilled unlikely dream that was often scoffed over
To match the inborn smarts in books
With that low down wisdom
And bring it ashore as aged oak who’d then
Be seen to have some value and some worth

To be worth a look, I mean, a listen
To this man’s talking, he’d earned the right
So it’s a good match, neither infallible mind you
But good if you can put the two together

We all get it in time, probably better to relax
This lad struggled with a lack of his own awareness
Of himself and that natural social sense,
That, thank God, we got easy
Hard road for the cub, and ain’t dat a man

So it’s earned it, more to go yet
Long as he keeps playing and teaching
And his boots don’t start tightening
On them big banana boat feet

Not a bad lad
The whole lot of them’s dead on
Good fellas
Now let’s get on with it

———————————————————————————–

I live for the man in the street, you know I do
But see if the necessary respect isn’t forthcoming
And this isn’t directed at any one person
All I’m saying is, if there’s an issue, come to me reasonable

I don’t want to hear anybody putting down my family
Hate to start a new stanza, but in street terms
I just don’t play that craic. No need to get personal
If I’m in the wrong, I’ll try to see my part in it and make up

Just want it known, don’t insult my family
Not that anybody particularly did
I was just reflecting on the kind of love we as men have for our brothers
It’s a good bond, it reminds us that blood is thicker than water

And that animal instinct to defend our families
Is a further reminder, of the depth of our love
Now all this street talk, hate to go on about love
But this is poetry after all

So peace out, like I say, let me know if I’m in the wrong
I don’t mind learning better.

———————————————————————————————–

It’s the men with most experience
And probably a considering mind
Who’s thoughts we want recorded
So that the rest of us can get the value

Some of these men might not be equipped
Might not think they have a poem in them
Because we all know what schools and teachers
Can do to a young man’s mentality, his outlook

Writing poetry takes great strength
You can take that from me, and I’m not a hard man
Easy to see, but it’s difficult, and it’s not
A girly thing, the best of men have writ good poems

Any man with the time on his hands
Or any man that has some desire in it
Deserves the help, to learn better his craft
So that his ideas can be appreciated

And the wrongs that were done these young men
In a schooling system not suited to them, or them to it
Can be set right, and their worth as far as men of intelligence
Can be rightly claimed

And for every one man who wins that battle
It’s a win for the rest of us
And more proof, that there’s worth in us
And those that disregard and insult a whole class

Are the muddled ones. Their close-mindedness will be exposed
And we may see a better future
For us that didn’t get the best chances
A path for them to thrive and succeed in life

————————————————————————————-

It was earlier I’d glanced
At the poems I’d written for Our Vinny
I didn’t get to sing those poems today
Maybe they aren’t for singing

Vinny got his reading and writing
He loved greyhounds, wanted to train them
Just like his da, well liked man
When Blue didn’t wake up at the vets

And Tommy Coleman threw up the lead
Vinny turned exactly that day
And then it was all robbing and such
But he’d a good heart

A hard man, very wise
I couldn’t see him writing a poem
Not his thing
He spoke his wisdom

Storytelling was his craft
He’d bark at me the lessons
As I was just another dog
He must’ve knew something

Cause I never forget them
I’ll never forget Vinny either
Man was tuned in
Bob Marley

Smoke
The Floyd
Utd
Fond of my friend John

Vinny Coleman
Good long haired man

——————————————————————————

Being a sensitive sort of lad I get real intimidated
By hard words mean insults and growling men
And that’s not exclusive to men, I am liable to shake
Visibly should a nice woman start barking real loud

I do feel a little ashamed that my capacity
For withstanding such common barrages is well below average
But there’s not much I can do about it
Save adjust my attitude and employ coping measures

It is easy to forget however that growling
Men and women can also be hurt
Especially by educated people like me who use big words needlessly
And sometimes flaunt their intelligence thoughtlessly

In the past I have been guilty of being aggressive with my wordplay
Using complex and sometimes seemingly insulting sentences without regard
For the feelings of those who might not understand everything that I am saying
They might find that insulting, they could even take it personally

Having given this some thought, in future I would like
To be more considerate when talking openly in public
I should be aware or the content of my words and thus their possible implications
Before choosing to share them with friends, family, mates, pals, or people in the community

Sometimes in life we fight, not actually physically
But disagreements do arise, this is natural
Sensitive folk tend to fear confrontation, this can see them retreat inwards
If they get too confident they can lose the run of themselves so to speak, and injure others with their manner, sometimes without knowing

I think we all have to make an effort to be more aware
This way everybody in our community can feel safe to enjoy their lives
We can get the best out of each other and see
Our communities grow and thrive. Peace.

Writing poetry sometimes involves
Reaching into memories we would rather leave alone
This can be uncomfortable, it does take patience, and perseverance

And whilst I say this mainly for myself
It’s important that you too recognise
The good work that you have done
Good for you, also good for others

We work this way as it’s fated
The words are only leading us
And really we couldn’t go asunder if we tried
Some things were just meant for us

————————————————————————————

When we were growing up
Acts of violence were commonplace
I don’t want to make this all about me
But it is my poem, so let me tell it

Yeah I was a sensitive wee kid, still fought
Easy intimidated truth be told, I’d come
Up from a wee street where we lived to the estate
Breakin’ windies, lighting fires, stealing all that moonshine
It was a good life and me ma couldn’t understand it

But them days aren’t there for us anymore
It’s a different thing now with judges
And any act of violence is seen as serious
Rightly so now we’re grown and crazy

When you’re in love as a grown father or mother
With that sort of bond, it can make you crazy
And if you were crazy to begin with then you’re doubly screwed
But mind too there’s boys on the estate who had manners

University and all the rest
All out ones had the brains
But never the common sense
Stuck in a way with the shame

Not good for a young sensitive disposition
Bullies, drugs, alcohol, bad home life
The circumstances of a rough young hoodlum
And barely disguised beneath was a lonely lad

Beneath it maybe we’re all like that
And it’s our mas can see through to it in a blink
Singing pop at the fireplace for the parents
Standing patient in a steamy kitchen while

Your wee pal got his dinner down
Always their ma would wonder why
You weren’t in your own kitchen having yours
And later learned to say nothing

And set you a plate with second hand love
When it’s both your ma and da gone missing
In one way or another, it’s a bad thing
And of course it’s all different degrees

Mine was bad enough, but not the worst
Looking back I’d rather the adventure
And the healed up relationship sets the thing different
You’ve to grow with these things

Otherwise the life would be lonely
And we don’t want that for anybody
Hope for the best and bring people in
Stubborn as one’s can be

I’d not want to see any good man suffering
One thing saying it, nobody wants to sacrifice
So I just do these poems, and talk different
Cause I feel different, and I like doing it

It’s only natural, and it helps me too.

—————————————————————————–

I used to worry about the wee niggles
Silly wee things that weren’t worth thinking about
I was fixated on these things and even wrote poems
For some reason I had to do that

Learning to fit in was hard for me
It can be painful learning by rejection
But it’s the only way if you’re pigheaded
Like I was and still am

I think we all like to see the best in ourselves
But every now and then
You’ve to turn the thing around
And look at what’s ugly

It’s not nice
But it makes sense
And if you can figure out some of it
Then a young fellow you might be able to help

Or maybe not, we’d all like to help
For some reason you can’t
Just do the thing direct
And expect them to swallow it whole

Better learning by themselves
They’ve to fall themselves
Enough times until it finally clicks
‘Oh, I’ll not do that again.’

Sometimes I think about my father
Hate the thought of him coming out in me
But why should I block my psyche and suffer
My father is in me and close to me

No child should be told their parent
One or the other is a bad person, ad nauseum
It’s not good for a person to carry that
We need both those passages clear,

Identity issues whether our male or female sides
Should be dealt with using the techniques
And methods applicable to the specific patient
Not everybody is new age hippie, neither others all pure science

They have to do the work themselves
All the same, any assistance we can provide
Should be readily available, and their path made clearer
This may all be commonly known and basic

I don’t care, my brain likes to proceed
As if I invented the theory
It’s a minor delusion that I indulge myself in
Usually I recover in time for real life engagements. Goodnight.

————————————————————————————–

We don’t need to use fancy words, metaphors,
Or any of that kind of nonsense, when writing our poems

Personally I find it intimidating reading the work of some of the fancier poets
I’d like to be as good as they are, it makes me feel dumb

Only for a minute though, when I start writing again to remind myself
That different styles, however ornate, or seemingly exclusive they may seem

Only really heap our respective works into their appropriate categories
The fancy guys write for people who like to think they’re fancy, those who have come from the dirt tend usually to speak to those like-minded

I get reminded too, and reassured that any piece’s true value
Lies in the content contained within, the human experience therein captured

I could put this pen in the mouth of a blind dyslexic
And they’d probably put down something more meaningful

Than some wineglass wanker
Whose use of fancy talk and symbolic nonsense
Tries to keep us normal folk
From attending his pretentious little reading

I could be taking this up wrongly
But somebody’s got to get it

And tonight we’re roasting the playboy.

————————————————————

The poor playboy got roasted bad tonight
And that wee spud-faced beer belied football coach
Is closing up the breadvan, with the big belly hanging
The same stinking polo shirt he’s been wearing as long as anyone can remember
Him charging five p extra for an out of date loaf
The milk it warm like butter near
And him having drunk from it
At the wheel him making eggnog

Neck on him too to be involved in athletics
Couldn’t run a bath and it’s well seen
They’d need to powerhose him and the van
Sandblast the fella aye, let’s make that happen

Have we got a majority vote?

———————————————————————————-

My uncle, who died
He had a load of tapes
Them VHS tapes which were a good medium
And he’d get the best of good Tv sorted

He used to talk about Nostradamus,
It was him made all them prophecies
He would write down a load of nonsense more or less
And sure enough it all come true

He liked Muhammad Ali, and Barry McGuigan
‘The night he beat the black man’
It was a bit more acceptable to be backward then
But he had more to him

The day of his funeral a squad
Of local men lined the grave duty bound
Later I remembered the tricolour he revealed
Hidden in the wardrobe, aloft in victory

Turned out my uncle was a mean fighter
Bit like myself, nice fella but,
Though by the stories he could really bump
I’m just a wee pussy cat being honest

Don’t even test me though cause I can box good
If you want to hurt me better just slagging
All them bully tactics, if I’d have known then
A few of the things that now I know

I’d have laid out a few more of them bullies
Like I did one or two anyway
But aye all fighters in my family
Even my da reportedly could bump a bit

Him like Clark Kent in the glasses
Took manys a beating too by the general account
Still it was nice for one man
And I’ll not forget it

Who was good enough to tell me
Of the time him and my da stood up to a bully in the bar
You see fighting at one time was celebrated
But you get to a certain point

With criminality and everywhere cameras
And just changing times ye can’t
Especially since any man could lose the head
Go overboard and really hurt someone

It’s just not on, we have to learn from our punishments
And think too of those we’ve harmed
Probably better getting into combat sports

Nice clean life, fitness and discipline
Into good shape, get a nice girl
And stay out of trouble, enjoy life.

————————————————————————————————-

Right fuck it
Here I’ll be honest
I’m just gonna talk whatever
Like I want it real no lesson

Aye so look this is what
It feels like for me anyway
It’s a fucking tight tension
In all your bad spots

Left arm shoulder and back for me mainly
It begins when you’ve to start the poem
It might lessen if you relax and just let it come
But to get the right word you tighten more

I don’t know why that is
And I’m not gonna stand here all day pretending to know
I could very well do that
But I don’t think you want to hear it

So look it just happens
Obviously you’ve to do the tension
And it ends when the poem is finished
That’s how you know you’re a poet

Sure you always were
First one out in the school news thing
Snowflakes and all, bit of a rip
But crazy stuff for a wee kid

The belief enables you
And that goes for anybody
We want to get the best out of people
Lay the groundwork, foster that belief

Now I didn’t make that up
And neither did you all that
Some we do and some is shared
Don’t worry about it kid.

——————————————————————————

You know I still have trouble talking
More with men than women, that I meet anyway
Because us men can take quite a bit of offence
Doesn’t like his sensibilities being chafed

And I’m the sort of stupid fella
Who just comes out with things
And maybe doesn’t realise
That it sounds like I’m competing

You know the usual one up
Some days we get it right
Some days ye try talking wise to another man
Or ye make him look stupid by mistake

In your eyes he didn’t look stupid at all
But sure doesn’t everybody’s brother or anybody
Have own little personality foibles and tics
And that’s a funny little word foibles

But as the man said we’re not discussing them wee things
The thing is we’ve all got wee issues and insecurities
Succeed as one may in hiding theirs from us, they’ll get rubbed up the wrong way
Just the same as your wee sibling had a particular thing

And eventually you let it alone
And had the consideration
To work around it
And then he’d not keep you goin’

About the fifty girlfriends
And every other wee laughing thing
That could veer easy into torture
You’re always going to annoy somebody

If you’re getting to know me
Keep an eye out for my tics
I’ll do the same and sure we’ll get on rightly

————————————————————————-

The English – a riposte

It is generally agreed upon that ‘the English’ are a colourful collection of numskulls and/or buffoons. Of the military sort, yes? Any interaction with the Englishman may prove problematic should you:

A) Stare intensely

B) Be French and/or Irish

The Irish man fears Englishes desperately since they continue to reserve the right to ‘withhold all potatoes.’ From the mid 1800s blight right up to the 1989s hunger strike, Irish starvation has long been a source of entertainment to spluttering English codgers; these have long been convinced that Red haired midgets we’re stashing their tax pounds beneath a golf course in Limerick. The visceral dying moments of some Irish prisoners were televised just before the six o clock news, which in England, is when every husband that exists in this backwards state, drinks grease from a rusting can that once held mushy peas. The seemingly subhuman Irish have trouble relating to their English superiors to this very day, mostly surrounding their privileges or lack thereof when in English company. They’ll allow a spud man to sing, but more than one intelligent remark will see him executed. Northerners who pledged their loyalty to the throne were at first thought to be exempt from these saddening harangues, many sprang out from suitcases anticipating a warm welcome, these poor Protestants were stoned, essentially with the same potatoes they were forbidden to eat 150 years earlier, it seemed they too were Irish as far as this colonial force was concerned.

All of the above

Is nonsense.

——————————————————————————————

I don’t have to write a picture perfect poem
I sure as hell didn’t grow up in a picture perfect home
The curtains on our walls were cheap
Why should I derail my entries with some

Minimalistic representative, an ornament essentially
When I get down to it directly
And undo your ribbon as I display, do what man know
That I execute, make it look cute, and demonstrate to you

That a man looks like me can teach you a thing or two
About the words and the rhythms and I
Never went to big school

It’s natural
To my people
And yea I do respect your identity
Just don’t be wielding it near me
And you and I can get along

—————————————————————————

They say we all come from Africa
I think I still got some in me
And the blues comes through you apparently
You can see it hear it feel it evidently

The white skinned man Eire, that’s Ireland
See him prove the moves that’s true
It’s not just him there’s others too
And what’s that say about one man’s ways

You want to flow and lay rhythm on rhythm
Ascertain when you access a state unclear
The thing pops and the people hear it
Those that know they wanna be near it

I can see it too when he chop and change
Making magic with his fingers look ain’t that strange
And it’s not about your colour you can hustle on the beach
Juke on shrooms with
Your jeans bleached and the hair worn like that there

—————————————————————-

It’s not about your colour
But we respect your culture if you’re true
I sensed it now I know so I’m only gonna process this and pass
Word on down the line we get along fine
Mine is yours and yours is mine

—————————————————————————-

The hardest things I’ve had to do
Is suffer suicidal thoughts night after night and persist
Raw fucked up frustrated confusion
Life then a cruel illusion with everybody in on it

I’ve had paranoia that wouldn’t think possible
I’m down to swear on the gospel if
You promise not to send it back
Night terrors and paranormal creeps

Ghosts needs and beatings
My head smashed against
The wall the pavement repeatedly
The claim they gave me barely worth it

Rejection outcast denied a regular theme
Friendless and alone and only myself to blame
Though who can I blame it on me not knowing the laws of love
Or basic shit like not to steal and pay bills like everyone else did as a matter of course and basic respect of course

I’ve had my reputation go up in flames
Had my name brandished I been blamed
I used to never care under I really had something to live for and now all I can is good as I can and do good deeds unseen I have faith you know

One day I will emerge not temporarily
I will adjust not temperamentally
I will secure for myself a position of security for which to hang upon my swing
God willing, I wish you peace.

————————————————————————-

You know I’m thinking of you tonight
This morning
I’m glad that you accept me and I’m sorry for the times when I overdo it
Carried away talk too much, yeah I know
Must be quite
Annoying
But anyway, it’s good that we can chat on that
There’s not many that knows the craic
And I appreciate you brah
One vice at a time. One love.

————————————————————————-

With minimal reflection I have come the staggering conclusion that: I can be quite an annoying person. In a very short note way, a way that I do not realise. Should I say hey that’s me and just continue annoying everyone I know l? Or can I make a slight adjustment? Me and mummy’s the same. Need to make a good effort to ask people about their stuff and make that the topic, before I start doing spoken word calculus swede jazz via Russia parp.

———————————————————

Your glory.

It behoves me esteemed principle of the Justice League to exhort most violently my admiration for your outright gall in finishing last week’s fun run just fifteen minutes in, in favour of a booze-up. The national pastime could certainly be doing with such a lofty endorsement, indeed a billboard pasted with the scene, you, laying there, trousers down in public. It might well recommend and endear you to the criminal classes even more so, their regard for your kind already causing them to faint with aplomb every time they’ve to wallop a knife-wielding teen. But yes your great glory and goodness, a congratulations of sorts is all, the humanity of the criminal wigwrarers’ brigade has finally been rammed down their throats. And sore-losers at the betting office, well, it’s a sight more serious for them m’lord, but yes, these wrongended mongrels know now just where to find you! Down the pub!

Cheers,
Honourable Judge D. Red

————————————–/\\———————-\/\-\//////////////\-\/—————————-