Tag Archives: #Loss

Praise the Titanic

Nobody knows how

to safely praise the Titanic;

a feat to be measured in two parts.

The first somewhat shorter

than the second,

the second, reckoned,

to be longer than the first.

How can this task be done?

I ask you this,

because I know that you have knowledge,

and brains,

know the difference between locomotives and trains,

and can count from ten to one,


But, how can it be done?

I ask you this,

as I have asked you before,

is there any way

that we can possibly praise the Titanic

from the depths of our hearts?


Tobie was a catcher,

a catcher in the rye;

he’d catch the ball I threw for him

no matter how far or high.

I miss my little catcher,

his cuddles and his ways;

but that pooch did live his best life

in the most mysterious ways.

Acquaintance Haikus

There’s an acquaintance

that I have no knowledge of –

I call him Sidney.


He likes to call round

at inopportune moments

and brings me flowers.


He stays for minutes –

barely time for a cuppa –

then he toodles off.


I count down the hours

until he returns once again

a bunch in his hand.


I don’t like flowers,

or Sidney, or Sidney’s hat;

they make me feel sad.


One day – not today –

I shall answer the front door

wearing just a smile.


This may do the trick,

or it might encourage him,

who can tell these days?


When Sidney passed on,

I cried for a long weekend,

and felt my time called.


Forty years later,

I still think of old Sidney,

and his horrible hat.

Our Triffid’s gone

Our Triffid, it’s gone!

Or it may be hiding;

we dare not go and see,

we do not go and look –

or perhaps it’s just a mythical creature

I read of in a book.

We counted them out

We counted them out,

and we counted them in,

there were fewer came back,

and they cried ‘Did we win?’

‘Not today.’ we said,

with a degree of sorrow;

‘But, we are bound to win tomorrow’.

So, we counted them out,

and we counted them in,

still fewer came back,

and they asked ‘Did we win?’

‘Not today.’ we said,

with a soupçon of sorrow,

‘But, we’ll probably win tomorrow.’

So, we counted them out,

and we counted them in,

just a handful came back,

and they asked, Did we win?’

‘Not today.’ we said,

with a small pinch of sorrow,

Though we’re quite likely to win on the morrow.’

Then we counted them out,

and we counted him in,

a dusty young lad from the Farthings,

and he asked, ‘Did I win?’

‘Not today’. we admitted,

with a tear in one eye,

‘But tomorrow is another day,

in which you can try’.

We counted him out…

I unwrote a radio script today.

Sadly, that is what I did: whilst trying to listen to a ‘notes’ document on my iPhone I managed within two or three seconds to delete the whole thing.

Not the end of the world, nor a major catastrophe, but I felt the sadness that losing something precious brings.

It’s not like losing a friend or a relative – as also happened today – and in comparison losing a sketch, poem, or script is nothing – but it set my mood on a downward slope that has been hanging around me since.

Losing a friend of Jane’s today is much more serious, and my error pales into insignificance – however, some things we can avoid, and some things we can’t.

It’s been quite a rubbishy Friday, and all on top of the current crisis in the world.

Sharing a thought for those who lose, and those who are lost in the world today, and every day.


I’m ‘there’ in the picture.

I’m ‘there’ in the picture,

can’t you see?

I’m the idjut swimming

in the cold of the sea;

I’m the one at the back

dawdling free;

I’m the clown at the fair

but no-one’s looking at me;

I’m the invisible man

stood next to the tree;

I’m the one who is missing

from the picture,

God bless me.

I had an idea

I had an idea

I had an idea

for a poem,

a wonderful poem,

better than all that I have ever written


then I saw a hypothetical squirrel…

… and that poem was no more.

Mama’s Little Soldier

Mama’s Little Soldier

Mama’s little soldier

went off to the war,

though he didn’t really know

what he was fighting for;

and when he came back,

he was in a box,

Mama visits him on Sundays,

and irons his socks.

Seagull Swoops

Seagull Swoops

Seagull swoops,

loops the loops,

and captures the moment,

that you lost your food,

forever, in your mind

the bird that had designs upon your treat;

swiped by beak and feet

in one mad rush of adrenalin…


But not forgotten,

as the gull gulps

his Ill-gotten gains,

upon your parade fall the rains.