Poems

 

I’m Losing My Faith in Most Haunted

I’m losing my faith in Most Haunted.
It’s a TV show
where a team undaunted
enter into locations purported
to host paranormal activity.

Considered with an adult, educated eye…
it gives me the willies.

But my cast-iron faith in psychics
began to rust
when Derek Acorah was busted
using made-up names for ghosts
about as real as David Cameron’s election boasts.

Amidst claims of
spooky sounds added by the crew,
poltergeist pushes faked by a few,
Derek exited the show,
unmasked like a villain from Scooby Doo. 

“It would have worked too,
if it wasn’t for those pesky parapsychologists!”

But even if they are charlatans,
I still hold out for proof
of an existence after this one.

Turn on the news or pick up a paper;
it’s enough to crush any faith in human nature.
Politicians backpeddling on social advances
and bankers taking immoral chances.

Even the Pope,
the supposed representative of God on Earth,
covering up child-molestation?

Infallible pontiff,
like hell he is.

In light of such allegations,
I need to keep believing
in the integrity of Yvette Fielding.

I ask you,
if you can’t trust someone
who was on Blue Peter,
who can you trust?

I must have some faith
in some thing.
So, I will return to my boxset DVDs,
complete with push button
that makes a scream,
and let Most Haunted make a true-believer
out of me.

 

House of Credit Cards

An English home is a castle still.
Bounty of profitable crusade
for the folks on the hill.
Battlements scaled on housing ladder
to fly the flag of success.
Flutters in the warming breeze
of economic excess.

Wind of change gulf-streaming,
darkens skies on road to home hell.
Thumbscrew purse-strings tighten,
making frippery-draped prison cell
from well-feathered nest.
No escape for damsel,
increasingly distressed.
Throws knot into satin chains
choking life from the indebted.

Knights cower behind bricks and mortar,
as marauding mob bays
for an economic slaughter.
Bailiff barbarians batter on.
House of credit cards topples
and manor lord turns pauper,
begging for alms,
from suddenly inflexible friends.

 

Milk Men

When first seduced,
I was reduced
to a fruit fool, on heat,
by a creamy, dreamy full-fat treat;
rich as rice pudding.
But too much naughtiness
left me a bloated mess.
Sickened of the cooling clot,
found he was no Lancelot,
so I sent him on his curds and whey.

On a whim,
tried someone skimmed.
Harmless as a calf,
cut calories by half.
Relations so healthy
but hardly a jamboree.
A weak cup of tea,
just too bland.
Bird in the hand
not worth two in the bush.

So, I resist
my fad for cads,
avoid goody-goody lads.
A semi-skimmed dish
will deliver my wish.
For a well-balanced act
keeps body intact
while milk-shaking my soul.
A winning whole
refreshes my six pint passion,
leaving the sweetest taste.