Everyone’s A Critic

The loud purring
Of a sensitive soul
Rumbles across my lap
A gentleman-mouser
Whose claws are rarely
Sheathed in my flesh
Save for those few
Accidental motions.
He pauses in his
Hypnotic kneading
Of careful paws
Twitches a whisker
Opens a lazy eye
We are content
Devoted Familiar and
Current Provider of ear-scratches
Precious moments spent together
Do not last as long
As they once did
Those rare islands
Of near-silence
I try to spend
Writing.
Such a distraction
Is sadly unacceptable
In company
My failure to stroke
Soft furry egos
While fingers
Play over lettered keys
And coffee cools
At a careless elbow
Lead to gentle taps
Polite, then more insistent
I frown and mutter
Trying to shake loose
Some old ideas
From new forehead creases
Transmit them to my dusty screen
Before the next
Set of demands is issued
By the charming pout
Of the other House Tyrant
Whose three-year-reign
Continues to sway
The working lives
Of all her subjects.
It is not enough.
I cannot please all
Of my many masters
Not this day.
As gentle snores fade to yawns
I sift through the tired
Dog-eared card catalogue
Housed temporarily for safekeeping
Within my rapidly emptying skull
Brain cycling faster
The vocalisation
Begins in earnest
Close behind my ear
“Miaouw!”
He is starting to insist
“Pssst! Shush!”
It is a futile gesture
To try to silence
An old friend
The search continues
There are paws on my shoulder
Tapping, prodding
A hint of sharpness
A gentle shove
Hot breath on my neck
Can I find a verbal noun,
Subclause, or synonym
To convey my sense
Of panic at the first stirrings
Of any sleeping creature
Under four feet
But still a giant?
Too late.
“Mummy!”
I hiss my discomfort
At the sudden perforation
Of my thigh.
Time’s up once again.

Snake Oil, Sass and Razzamatazz

I envy those women in the magazines
It goes back to something missing from my teens

Their white trouser, silk blouse lifestyle
When pimples and bad hair were my style

Do I deserve their barefoot walks on the beach
With a dog whose perm is out of my reach?

Can I emulate their effortless charm
In a climate where thick vests are the norm?

And as advertising copy is rife
Where do I sign up for their perfect life?

With a spouse who is polite to my mum
And a car that is the envy of some…

Or is that only alive on the page
While we sigh, we buy, but bicker and rage?

What has happened to us living the dream
In a home of painted white wood and cream?

How are we supposed to manage to burn
All the endless stuff they tell us to earn?

And as pensioners smile sweetly at kids
While their offspring bust a gut on the skids

Keeping families from floating away
Working harder, longer hours each day

For an ad campaigner, trainer, shamer
Knows no namer, public blamer

Never better, next trend setter
Panty wetter, promo debtor

How is this for living the dream
We grip tighter than our miracle cream?

Public Transport

I take the bus to work each day –
Prefer it to the tube
I get to see the surface
Though the people are just as rude

It gives me some hint to the seasons
Not something you see much in town
And if I reach the stop early
There’s even a chance I’ll sit down

It really doesn’t bother me
That transport is half the speed
Our day’s the same length anyhow
And this way I get to read

The faces of my fellows
This aptly named human race
Who zoom in private vehicles
Not seeing the world they face

A Stitch in Time…

Relax, said the wristwatch, his owner a flurry
For time moves too quickly when you’re in a hurry
And I need my rest or I’ll go double speed
And your life will be only the length of a reed.
Have patience, dear timepiece. The busy man said.
If I don’t make this meeting, I’m better off dead.
Oh pish, said the wristwatch, don’t butter me up.
No job’s worth this madness, you should try your luck
At giving another man the time of day
For you aren’t precisely happy this way.
Don’t know what you mean, the busy man huffed
As he clutched at his briefcase and doubled up, puffed.
I believe that you do, sighed the wristwatch, ashamed
As his owner tried vainly to breathe in again.
Don’t panic, just listen to tock and to tick
You’ll be panting again my dear sir, double quick.
But not one reply did the busy man give
For his rushing had sped through the time he’d to live.
So you see you should heed what your clock has to say
And learn to take time, not just rush through the day.

On the death of conversation

Buried in silence that drifts long and low
The tick of a clock now has no place to go
For time equals money – yes this we all know
And I cannot afford to be seen to be slow.