tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13437565154398822802024-03-06T06:00:47.007+00:00Pete's Christmas PoemsA selection of my poems about Christmas / winter / New Year and that kind of thingPeter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-76469565317377594922010-12-03T19:49:00.002+00:002010-12-03T19:52:12.296+00:00The woman who heard too much<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-Uc-NsTxuf9hyMlj0VosXq6fI2gLYyw9qdJw720Q2axu8dpNMGbbbB_nFpIelX0zC2bCLBXBTCk-7WlWzrYq47C8eweXA1fQCmbB5m2GxZLTieHDO85l0tP4bv_mBRPQgTaGd8oZSlxz/s1600/DSCF2159.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546546056654319042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-Uc-NsTxuf9hyMlj0VosXq6fI2gLYyw9qdJw720Q2axu8dpNMGbbbB_nFpIelX0zC2bCLBXBTCk-7WlWzrYq47C8eweXA1fQCmbB5m2GxZLTieHDO85l0tP4bv_mBRPQgTaGd8oZSlxz/s400/DSCF2159.JPG" /></a> <div></div>The woman who heard too much<br /><br />She woke suddenly in the dead of night,<br />terrified by the clamour outside.<br />Tearing back the velvet curtains,<br />she recoiled at the sound of giant snowflakes<br />crashing to the ground like cluster bombs.<br />On the far horizon,<br />below the steel grey bank of bulbous cloud,<br />a thin lemon slice of a moon<br />screeched around its rusty track<br />like a tin duck at a fairground.<br />Hands over ears, she swung around<br />to the plumped pillow on the far side of the bed,<br />remembering too late the storm<br />that followed the half-heard<br />whispered phone conversation in the kitchen.Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-85569912240257028832010-12-03T19:46:00.001+00:002010-12-03T19:48:24.461+00:00Snow in Ireland<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK3lz288Qv4KfNc_6GkUwYmlMb009ZhuLqTanyU9_Nlhevi-eAJ_eqaLWwugyncUSQqBdDGQsMj1wBYjQkMuEuEg7lgffE3Mcsgk9pXGwYYu7Z7ocIIEwYYO9HUwW4U8rS3J6dPNZiPw-z/s1600/DSCF2171.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546545103758688594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK3lz288Qv4KfNc_6GkUwYmlMb009ZhuLqTanyU9_Nlhevi-eAJ_eqaLWwugyncUSQqBdDGQsMj1wBYjQkMuEuEg7lgffE3Mcsgk9pXGwYYu7Z7ocIIEwYYO9HUwW4U8rS3J6dPNZiPw-z/s400/DSCF2171.JPG" /></a> <div></div>Snow in Ireland<br /><br />There’s a blanket of snow down in Ballinasloe<br />with a valance of ice underneath.<br />There’s a duvet of hail now smothering Kinsale<br />and a flat sheet of sleet up in Meath.<br /><br />The snow’s thundered down on Donegal town<br />and covered it like a bedspread.<br />There’s a white drifting mattress o’er Ballymacatras –<br />I think that I’m going back to bed.Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-43053223163163358912010-12-03T19:44:00.003+00:002010-12-03T19:45:54.650+00:00Spoiling the landscape<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJm-et6LHId9k9KJvHvWRBPqYX7l_fu_V36wLJLXVIihBDh5lnMkWPRHR4Y4LgJlSoknZBEfNWf8beyzl8CVR3rpTmAIJisE-jJNSWtmfB2QyYre6RWg0c9DxKnvNfhxaW0a5udoU6_LQ/s1600/Gipsy_childrens_jpg_2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546544239937824818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJm-et6LHId9k9KJvHvWRBPqYX7l_fu_V36wLJLXVIihBDh5lnMkWPRHR4Y4LgJlSoknZBEfNWf8beyzl8CVR3rpTmAIJisE-jJNSWtmfB2QyYre6RWg0c9DxKnvNfhxaW0a5udoU6_LQ/s400/Gipsy_childrens_jpg_2.jpg" /></a> <div></div>Spoiling the landscape at Christmas<br /><br />This is a time for goodwill and for peace<br />as we remember friends and fatten geese,<br />a time for Silent Night and midnight mass,<br />a time for thoughts of poverty to cease.<br /><br />I do not want to see you when I pass,<br />sitting, bowl outstretched upon your ass.<br />It serves to spoil the joyous atmosphere<br />by making me feel guilty of my class.<br /><br />Around this time of Christmas and good cheer,<br />the warmest and the coldest time of year,<br />when stress and money worries just increase,<br />would you, for just one month, not disappear?Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-17384814204252585302010-12-03T19:39:00.001+00:002010-12-03T19:40:48.829+00:00Blocks of ice<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjODI43kfhVRKJCzn2pumWSjzXDSQ9kIgEuKxOydwOOrIoRpH3uikI4darhqOjt-XBrDyjMY5C34TbnvyweqN7hQ1raWMIhIfmGXpdsr85PWU7nOXCdZgefza_c_I0ESMYJ6_KpXl-IQg7Z/s1600/cold-feet.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 381px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546543163204743170" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjODI43kfhVRKJCzn2pumWSjzXDSQ9kIgEuKxOydwOOrIoRpH3uikI4darhqOjt-XBrDyjMY5C34TbnvyweqN7hQ1raWMIhIfmGXpdsr85PWU7nOXCdZgefza_c_I0ESMYJ6_KpXl-IQg7Z/s400/cold-feet.jpg" /></a> <div></div>Blocks of ice<br /><br />Whenever there’s a hint of nippy weather,<br />I dread the way that it affects my feet.<br />Despite three pairs of socks,<br />they become two icy blocks<br />and no matter how I bang the two together,<br />they always lose all vestiges of heat.<br /><br />We always shop December twenty-third<br />but the fridge is far too small to take our turkey.<br />My wife says to me, “Pete,<br />can we rest them on your feet?<br />That way, we’ll ensure the festive bird<br />stays at a temperature that’s cool and perky.”<br /><br />I do the social rounds throughout the year<br />and never have refused an invitation.<br />I go round to people’s houses,<br />chat to everyone and their spouses.<br />Despite all this, I’ve really no idea<br />why people say I’ve got bad circulation.Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-41659147290289274912009-12-23T04:22:00.001+00:002009-12-23T04:25:03.757+00:00The three kings<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWS-F8DBIOYMsr-QnYiU6gmqmhsS_fU-kdLJp_oauvtghQm6YM8P7SUbpyQ5L0YTNqvl5B7dtQrVI8HqOHl2ANKjBuLKE1A_FZ2lMR1XGEYoRMCROxJuWQeZnUtVCu-XDog4GM26FoLmA/s1600-h/three-wise-men-star.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418282814734378018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 203px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWS-F8DBIOYMsr-QnYiU6gmqmhsS_fU-kdLJp_oauvtghQm6YM8P7SUbpyQ5L0YTNqvl5B7dtQrVI8HqOHl2ANKjBuLKE1A_FZ2lMR1XGEYoRMCROxJuWQeZnUtVCu-XDog4GM26FoLmA/s320/three-wise-men-star.jpg" border="0" /></a> Reading, ‘riting, ‘rithmetic -<br />The three wise kings weren’t pushed.<br />“Give me bright stars<br />O’er those three Rs,”<br />King Balthazar once gushed.<br /><br />Of course, they’d other interests<br />Aside from astral plotting,<br />Yoghurt making,<br />Yeast-based baking<br />And yes, a bit of yachting.<br /><br />Yoghurt, Yeast and Yachting?<br />‘Twas not surprising then,<br />The trio came<br />To lasting fame<br />For being three Ys men.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-57350740041312748112009-12-18T11:38:00.002+00:002009-12-18T11:43:10.394+00:00Little robin redbreast<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8D7OaOmhKzziM11rvLXZji11inKszKPYg2TZXqp2UNIAOENIs5pc_wsBKhKRBSJmxLpcg39ZTkaz0M6YsWlhNA8smonVspnkQgE4RVsGavtkNjhKdOaSAL551pDkNQruEBN0jKoLB1tDQ/s1600-h/DSCF0612.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416540280130388034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8D7OaOmhKzziM11rvLXZji11inKszKPYg2TZXqp2UNIAOENIs5pc_wsBKhKRBSJmxLpcg39ZTkaz0M6YsWlhNA8smonVspnkQgE4RVsGavtkNjhKdOaSAL551pDkNQruEBN0jKoLB1tDQ/s320/DSCF0612.JPG" border="0" /></a> Little robin redbreast<br />sitting on the fence,<br />chirruping his tuneful song<br />though the snow is dense.<br /><br />Hark! His song has altered<br />to a plaintive bleat –<br />little robin redbreast<br />cannot move his feet.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-83314472211383405522009-12-18T11:29:00.001+00:002009-12-18T11:31:13.851+00:00Last Christmas<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0cNs7R5fSPiCNHSh-C5RIL0aT7AtGIfdwmFKpzL2emHCl1xIaEmS6u1iRB4C2KKVxftDRr5wRnIQLHiLlgyfKladlUMDzJWj3TKRfPSM_HjBJarer65C7QMXGTuSGlUYXLy6aEUkb-Xl/s1600-h/lastxmas2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416537125324213218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 120px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0cNs7R5fSPiCNHSh-C5RIL0aT7AtGIfdwmFKpzL2emHCl1xIaEmS6u1iRB4C2KKVxftDRr5wRnIQLHiLlgyfKladlUMDzJWj3TKRfPSM_HjBJarer65C7QMXGTuSGlUYXLy6aEUkb-Xl/s320/lastxmas2.jpg" border="0" /></a><em> Last Christmas, I gave you my heart<br />But the very next day, you gave it away.<br />This year, to save me from tears,<br />I’ll give it to someone special.<br /></em><br />It’s true last year you gave to me your heart, George.<br />Though frankly it was really quite unpleasant.<br />It was a soggy, gooey mess<br />In a Tesco bag, no less.<br />Earrings would have made a nicer present.<br /><br />On Stephen’s Day I gave your heart away, George.<br />We still had half a turkey and some ham.<br />Did you expect that I<br />Would go and put it in a fry?<br />What kind of person do you think I am?<br /><br />The dog’s home was so grateful for your heart, George.<br />They seldom get a chance to taste raw meat.<br />Does it not hold some appeal<br />To know they ate a ‘hearty’ meal?<br />(Though your kidneys would have been a nicer treat)<br /><br />There’s no-one special this year, Georgie, is there?<br />Else why not write a song to her, not me?<br />Ok, last year I was miffed<br />By your bloodied Christmas gift –<br />So this year, choose a bit more carefully.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-49703941300487602312009-12-17T15:55:00.002+00:002009-12-17T15:56:01.036+00:00The perfect Christmas present<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoqD8MGrTVFhIjh68n4kwKTjLI1vV8C3Y4PureWlQZIe7-wUTYxL-n0PqhocJ9wLfPZWZjZiop-3-eT1w_sLaoxzaDtIE86RWDK7WmfTLzzY7LXUNyHP9IFDK1OxmGHpfpUgGVjbfHl96-/s1600-h/pantyhose_stocking_tights.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416234320635282738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoqD8MGrTVFhIjh68n4kwKTjLI1vV8C3Y4PureWlQZIe7-wUTYxL-n0PqhocJ9wLfPZWZjZiop-3-eT1w_sLaoxzaDtIE86RWDK7WmfTLzzY7LXUNyHP9IFDK1OxmGHpfpUgGVjbfHl96-/s320/pantyhose_stocking_tights.jpg" border="0" /></a> I hoped she didn’t think it was sarcastic –<br />My Christmas gift to poor one legged Cilla.<br />“An artificial leg!” she cried, “Fantastic!”<br />“Aw shucks,” I said. “It’s just a stocking filler.”<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-32416041463895261202009-12-10T08:58:00.002+00:002009-12-10T08:59:15.079+00:00Highly decorated<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRNawL-asKsrEh_nAjFxkZSNokMGXpXcXsfUEVsm6IRo9gIsVeSQbSXUKBm9A7RDALYjdFjYW3hgoJP1qgD4pT9LMIkqumE18-L_pPZKCnxVG8pVp-GlcCLZatdChzCArwhSJ4mwU6d2n/s1600-h/christmas_tree.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413529394546012258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 237px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRNawL-asKsrEh_nAjFxkZSNokMGXpXcXsfUEVsm6IRo9gIsVeSQbSXUKBm9A7RDALYjdFjYW3hgoJP1qgD4pT9LMIkqumE18-L_pPZKCnxVG8pVp-GlcCLZatdChzCArwhSJ4mwU6d2n/s320/christmas_tree.gif" border="0" /></a> It has a knighthood strung out large across its branches.<br />Upon the top, it wears its MBE.<br />There’s a giant Maltese Cross<br />Behind the fairy lights because<br />It’s a highly decorated Christmas tree.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-43599497467685274542009-12-05T20:49:00.002+00:002009-12-05T20:49:58.429+00:00A recessionary Christmas<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaiUrzie3Ljr_Hf76bDtFv7y7KldJWWrdT_jjruKD4fi_l7gs1p5XuJ6uZoVOhPE76dTI6DYX5dEyIsIl8mj7kkveh9SzEcf8-3lxzuyo79xO5CkI8ffMZxq4s5QZQ9ZS6Bxj6PYAGFJxr/s1600-h/Crimbo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411857101804148242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 398px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaiUrzie3Ljr_Hf76bDtFv7y7KldJWWrdT_jjruKD4fi_l7gs1p5XuJ6uZoVOhPE76dTI6DYX5dEyIsIl8mj7kkveh9SzEcf8-3lxzuyo79xO5CkI8ffMZxq4s5QZQ9ZS6Bxj6PYAGFJxr/s400/Crimbo.jpg" border="0" /></a> This Christmas, we’ll save what we’ve got,<br />Keep on the straight and narrow.<br />There’ll be no turkey in the pot –<br />I hope you like roast sparrow.<br /><br />The North Pole says the elves<br />Have all been made redundant<br />And so we’ll make the cards ourselves<br />And toys won’t be abundant.<br /><br />Presents, such as they will be,<br />Will come wrapped in The Sun,<br />The Great Escape will start at three<br />And end at three oh one.<br /><br />The Christmas tree will be replaced<br />By sprig of pyracantha<br />And thriftiness will be embraced<br />By banning talk of Santa.<br /><br />Impoverished, we’ll proudly stand<br />With Jesus in the stall,<br />For its acknowledged cross the land<br />That we have got shag all.<br /><br /></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-6830532054622590682008-02-03T09:49:00.001+00:002008-02-03T09:49:49.979+00:00Getting earlier every year<div align="center">The smell of burnt fireworks wafts on the breeze,<br />As autumn’s cold hand starts to tighten.<br />A few hardy leaf-lets cling tight to the trees,<br />At five, the street lamps start to brighten.<br /><br />But what’s this I see? Is the madness complete?<br />(The answer is surely “Yea, verily.”)<br />On November 1st in a house ‘cross the street,<br />A Christmas tree’s lights twinkle merrily.</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-86527934517329683172007-12-12T12:53:00.000+00:002007-12-12T12:57:15.260+00:00A Sad Christmas Tale<div align="center">Christmas has a special glow,<br />There’s magic everywhere.<br />Robins warble in the snow<br />And carols fill the air.<br />But one young boy was sadder than<br />A bowl of misery,<br />The day an irate Dundalk fan<br />Destroyed his Christmas tree.<br /><br />A little elf had brought it to<br />The house in Merrion Square.<br />It rang the bell and right on cue<br />Young John was standing there.<br />Suspicious, aye and wary,<br />He had thanked the little elf.<br />Alas! He had no fairy,<br />So he sat on top himself.<br /><br />Santa Claus came calling<br />To Nick Leeson and his band.<br />John Gill thought it appalling<br />That he’d favoured Terryland.<br />The mood had been unseasonal<br />Above in county Louth,<br />And words uncouth and treasonal<br />The Dundalk folk did mouthe.<br /><br />But far from angry peasants,<br />John was well in Christmas mode.<br />He dreamt of lovely presents<br />And a brand new Lansdowne Road.<br />But Christmas lights no longer shone<br />When, on an angry spree,<br />A Dundalk fan poured petrol on<br />His lovely Christmas tree.<br /><br />The wicked act caused John to blanch.<br />It really spoiled his day.<br />Somebody called the Special Branch<br />To haul the chap away.<br />The tree, undressed, no longer shone<br />Within those stately walls.<br />Poor John was left to gaze upon<br />His petrol-smothered balls.<br /><br />So spare a thought this Christmastime<br />For one poor little boy,<br />The victim of a heinous crime,<br />A brutal, savage ploy.<br />He’ll hang his balls where’er he can<br />But still sobs bitterly,<br />Because an irate Dundalk fan<br />Destroyed his Christmas tree. </div><div align="center">.</div><div align="left"><em>Originally written Dec 13th 2006. "Fun and games in Dublin today, when an irate Dundalk fan burst into the headquarters of John Delaney's FAI in Merrion Square, poured petrol over himself and the Christmas tree and threatened to set himself alight. Although Dundalk won a play-off against Premier Club Waterford, both were overlooked to join the new revamped Premier League in favour of third place Galway United, who somehow got in on their off-the-field activities. The Dundalk fan came quietly and there is a great photo doing the rounds of a policeman carrying the tree down the steps."</em></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-19800576809355792512007-12-08T16:51:00.000+00:002007-12-08T16:52:10.717+00:00A Christmas wish come true<div align="center">He hung his stocking from the bar,<br />Despite the ref’s objections.<br />The shots rained in from near and far,<br />Pile-drivers and deflections.<br /><br />But no, he dived to left and right -<br />Was Fortune ever kinder?<br />Upon that magic Christmas night,<br />The keeper played a blinder.<br /><br />Once he thought he heard some hooves<br />Land on the goal behind him.<br />Was Santa searching all the rooves?*<br />The keeper prayed he’d find him.<br /><br />And, at the final whistle, he<br />Searched for his Christmas treat,<br />And from the stocking, with great glee,<br />He pulled out a clean sheet.</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-45987866145441735612007-11-22T20:17:00.000+00:002007-11-22T20:19:31.562+00:00Another Christmas Tale<div align="center"><em>(to the tune of “Once in royal David’s city)</em></div><div align="center"><em>.<br /></em><br />Roy was worshipped down at City,<br />All the girls would call him “Stud.”<br />Strong and brave, he showed no pity,<br />He was really very good.<br />Saintly in his will to win,<br />Anger was his only sin.<br /><br />His manager was tough as leather,<br />Lee was decades in the game.<br />Never shy to shout out whether<br />Certain people were to blame.<br />Black and white and old and young,<br />All would fear Lee’s lethal tongue.<br /><br />After one quite horrid disaster,<br />Roy came in for some abuse.<br />Never were words spat out faster,<br />Lee’s old face became bright puce.<br />Roy remained serene and calm,<br />Then drove to his manager’s farm.<br /><br />He took a tractor from a stable<br />And drove to a cattle shed.<br />First the side wall, then the gable,<br />Tumbled down around his head.<br />Fearsome bedlam did abound,<br />As the shed crashed to the ground.<br /><br />Well, the press were in the clover,<br />This was really front page news.<br />Was Roy’s stay at City over?<br />Journalists all gave their views.<br />What will all the upshot be?<br />Can the club placate mad Lee?<br /><br />Talks began between the parties,<br />Snow fell down on many lands.<br />Rumours scattered round like Smarties<br />Flung from short bad-tempered hands.<br />City thought The Stud must leave,<br />His one sin held no reprieve.<br /><br />Then as Christmas turkeys roasted,<br />Came a breakthrough at the death.<br />Notices were quickly posted,<br />Phone calls made with panting breath.<br />“Compromise!” shrieked out the news,<br />Headline writers sought their muse –<br /><br />“<em>One-sin Roy’ll stay with City –<br />Stud’ll owe Lee cattle shed.”</em></div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-63009913935707920762007-08-10T09:28:00.001+01:002007-08-10T09:28:44.147+01:00A Familiar Refrain<div align="center">The eyes of my teddy have fallen out,<br />My brand new football is flat.<br />My clockwork tractor is up the spout,<br />And my Smarties were robbed by the cat.<br />I’ve lost my Subbuteo football fan,<br />My Jordan sweatshirt got torn,<br />Daddy trod on my Action Man<br />And it’s still only Christmas morn.</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-41137214262478712822007-08-03T16:27:00.000+01:002007-08-03T16:28:03.638+01:00Who Killed Cock Robin?<div align="center">“I,” said the Stork.<br />“I popped his cork.<br />I killed Cock Robin.”<br /><br />“I,” said the Owl.<br />“With my little towel,<br />I killed Cock Robin.”<br /><br />“I,” said the Jay.<br />“I made him pay.<br />I killed Cock Robin.”<br /><br />“I,” said the gannet.<br />“With a large piece of granite.<br />I killed Cock Robin.”<br /><br />“I,” said the Crow.<br />“I broke his toe.<br />I killed Cock Robin.”<br /><br />“I,” said the Finch.<br />“It was a cinch.<br />I killed Cock Robin.”<br /><br />“I,” said the Chough.<br />“He thought he was tough.<br />I killed Cock Robin.”<br /><br />“I,” said the Coot.<br />“I stuck in the boot.<br />I killed Cock Robin.”<br /><br />“I,” said the pheasant.<br />“Though it was unpleasant.<br />I killed Cock Robin.”<br /><br />“I,” said the wren.<br />“And I’d do it again.<br />I killed Cock Robin.”<br /><br />“Enough!” said the Quail.<br />“You’re all going to jail<br />For killing Cock Robin.”</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-19713079981704060032007-08-03T16:26:00.001+01:002007-08-03T16:26:47.912+01:00Whatever Happened to the Millennium Clock?<div align="center">The Millennium Clock. Now, does that ring a bell?<br />The unfortunate “Time in the Slime”?<br />Oh, spare me a moment in which I will tell<br />Of a wicked and dastardly crime.<br /><br />A long time ago, back in old ninety nine,<br />The people of Dublin were reckoned<br />To warrant a timepiece encrusted with brine<br />That counted down each shagging second.<br /><br />What joy! What happiness! What ecstatic bliss!<br />What wonderful cause for elation!<br />A bloody great clock in a river of piss,<br />All thanks to the brave Corporation.<br /><br />At O’Connell Bridge people queued up for days<br />To watch the red seconds descending,<br />And, though it was viewed through a yellowy haze,<br />The queues for it seemed never-ending.<br /><br />Problems and troubles were all washed away,<br />When faced with this wondrous invention,<br />And as the big numbers got smaller each day,<br />We got pre-millennial tension.<br /><br />But then, one fine morn, the damn thing wasn’t there,<br />The Liffey was no longer ticking,<br />Though people continued to look down and stare<br />And Japanese cameras kept clicking.<br /><br />Oh, well I remember that terrible day<br />That Dublin’s proud timepiece was taken.<br />Grown men found it tricky to keep tears at bay,<br />So lost and forlorn and forsaken.<br /><br />Old men hugged each other, and little girls wept,<br />With consummate grief and self-pity,<br />And all through the afternoon, dark rumours swept<br />Through the north and the south of the city.<br /><br />The media circus surrounded Wood Quay,<br />Demanding immediate answers,<br />And, scenting a story, reported with glee<br />That the men in the Corpo were chancers.<br /><br />At length came a spokesman, along with a brief,<br />Imploring us all not to panic.<br />The clock hadn’t sunk; there was no need for grief –<br />It was hardly the shagging Titanic.<br /><br />The Liffey was manky, he went on to say,<br />Exceedingly grubby and dirty.<br />It needed some purification but they<br />Didn’t get enough money from Bertie.<br /><br />The Millennium Clock, he imparted with force,<br />Had been subject to regular screening,<br />And, due to the slime, as a matter of course,<br />They had taken it off for a cleaning.<br /><br />The people all breathed a huge sigh of relief<br />That everything seemed as it oughta.<br />And all throughout Dublin, there was the belief<br />That this explanation held water.<br /><br />The Millennium Clock never surfaced again,<br />The people forgot all about it.<br />The story went round that they’d cleaned it in vain,<br />And no-one had reason to doubt it.<br /><br />But now is the time for the truth to be sold,<br />No need for misrepresentation.<br />For it was a pup that the city was sold,<br />With meticulous prevarication.<br /><br />Two men, late at night, from the edge of the quays,<br />Pushed a dinghy out into the river.<br />The cold, icy breeze made the older man sneeze,<br />And the younger one gave a sharp shiver.<br /><br />They paddled away by the light of the moon,<br />Though both of them chattered and trembled.<br />They worked very carefully, and very soon<br />The Millennium Clock was dissembled.<br /><br />They floated downstream to the Custom House Dock<br />Where a black hi-ace van with a skylight<br />Stood waiting to whisk the two men and the clock<br />Away into Dublin’s bleak twilight.<br /><br />The Corpo decided, Jack Nicholson-wise,<br />That the truth was too awful to handle,<br />And so they concocted a tissue of lies<br />In order to stifle a scandal.<br /><br />The mood of the mob was uncertain to gauge.<br />Imagine the wild accusations!<br />Far better the lie that would dissipate rage,<br />And so, the mundane explanations.<br /><br />But, hold on a minute, I hear you butt in,<br />How come only you know the truth?<br />Well, that’s not quite true, I reply with a grin –<br />There’s my son, a remarkable youth.<br /><br />We live in a semi in Dublin’s North Wall,<br />I oftentimes wish it was bigger.<br />But when we admire our big clock on the wall,<br />I find it so hard not to snigger.</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-34834584105903326742007-08-03T16:25:00.001+01:002007-08-03T16:25:20.686+01:00New Year<div align="center">New Year,<br />New fear,<br />New resolutions,<br />New dissolutions,<br />New aspirations,<br />New complications,<br />New ambitions,<br />New conditions,<br />New relations,<br />New temptations,<br />New impressions,<br />New repressions,<br />New expressions,<br />New depressions,<br />New salvation,<br />New damnation,<br />New rapport,<br />New clear war.</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-90986080721750364512007-08-03T16:21:00.001+01:002007-08-03T16:21:36.884+01:00Newgrange Me Arse!<div align="center">The winter solstice night was nearly finished,<br />The sun was making signals in the east,<br />The power of the darkness was diminished,<br />The terror of the longest night decreased.<br /><br />I sat there in the kitchen eating cornflakes,<br />The kitchen drapes were parted just a crack,<br />I vaguely heard the rasping cry of corncrakes<br />Heralding the dawning out the back.<br /><br />Then suddenly the sun’s first rays appeared<br />Over Paige’s ironmonger’s store,<br />And something happened that was really weird,<br />Something I had never seen before.<br /><br />A shaft of light shot through the parted curtain,<br />And hit my mural of three ducks in flight,<br />I turned the light off, for I was quite certain<br />Darkness would augment this wondrous sight.<br /><br />The first green duck was all illuminated,<br />A leading light in each and every sense,<br />I bit my lip, transfixed and fascinated,<br />The atmosphere electrified and tense.<br /><br />Then, as the sun peeped higher over Paige’s,<br />The light did seem to travel down and right,<br />Inch by inch it crept in tiny stages<br />Until the second duck came into sight.<br /><br />I barely breathed in hope and expectation,<br />For nature still had not revealed her all,<br />Not satisfied with this illumination,<br />Remorselessly it travelled down the wall.<br /><br />I sensed the third and final duck get nearer.<br />Excited, I could hardly bear to look.<br />At first, a beak and then a head grew clearer,<br />And then the soaring body of the duck.<br /><br />Three ducks shone forth from out the inky blackness,<br />Haloed in the winter solstice sun.<br />And though they stayed quite stationary and quackless,<br />They shouted that the longest night was done.<br /><br />The next few days, just as the sun was dawning,<br />I waited for the sight to reappear.<br />But the only time it happened was that morning<br />Of the Druids’ ending of the year.<br /><br />What men were these who built this humble dwelling<br />Way back in August nineteen ninety three?<br />What astronomic secrets were they telling,<br />These fabled architects of destiny?</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-72039879152115223262007-08-03T16:17:00.002+01:002007-08-03T16:18:50.530+01:00The First Noel<div align="center">Noel, Noel,<br />Noel, Noel.<br />Born is the King of Israe.</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-46902747997483085812007-08-03T16:17:00.001+01:002007-08-03T16:17:43.413+01:00The Reverse of the Coin<div align="center">On Christmas Day, the tension ceased,<br />Brown faces into cackles creased,<br />And trenches deep disgorged their band<br />Of soldiers into no-man’s land.<br />And as they through the dank mist peered,<br />Brown faces with broad smiles appeared,<br />And clambered out to meet their foe,<br />With metaphorical mistletoe.<br />And cigarettes were handed round,<br />With photographs, dry, crunched and browned,<br />And when a football was produced,<br />The enmity again reduced,<br />And laughter, talent and fair play<br />Became the order of the day,<br />As human jetsam, urged to kill,<br />United in the common thrill<br />Of boot and leather, crosses, passes,<br />Loved by all the working classes.<br /><br />Nigh on ninety years have passed<br />Since all those men were shot or gassed,<br />And I sit in my easy chair<br />Too far removed to really share<br />In those emotions that prevailed<br />When men against the system railed.<br />It seems an instinct born of good.<br />Humanity crawled out of mud<br />And shook his killer by the hand –<br />Thus far can I understand.<br /><br />But I, so hypocritically racked,<br />Can’t comprehend the simple fact,<br />That on the next morn, war resumed<br />For men once more with death consumed.</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-53116891827232225042007-08-03T16:16:00.002+01:002007-08-03T16:17:03.561+01:00St. Peter Saves Christmas<div align="center">God wasn’t thrilled by the presents received.<br />They hadn’t been as good as he’d believed.<br />No quad bikes, games or fancy clocks,<br />Just packets and packets of novelty socks.<br />Of course, he didn’t envy his only Son,<br />Who had Christmas and birthday all rolled into one,<br /><br />But just when he thought the presents were over,<br />He heard St. Peter crying “Jehovah!”<br />And there, hobbling up from the Heavenly Gate,<br />Came the very first Pope with a massive crate.<br />“Happy Christmas God,” said the archetypal<br />Fisherman who became disciple.<br /><br />God looked hard at the old apostle,<br />Standing beside the crate colossal.<br />“It’s not full of socks?” he asked with alarm,<br />Feeling a shiver running down his arm.<br />But Peter just smiled and stood quite still,<br />Proffering God the cordless drill.<br /><br />In ten seconds flat, the screws were out,<br />And the Lord let out a mighty shout.<br />“Holy Smoke! Great Balls of Fire!<br />I’ve got my very own tumble drier!”<br />And he jigged around the new machine<br />That would dry the clothes once they were clean.<br /><br />“Oh thanks, old pal, old buddy, old mate!”<br />He yelled to the Keeper of the Heavenly Gate.<br />“Its just the thing I’d hoped to get.<br />Old friend, I’m forever in your debt.”<br />And he heaved the machine up onto his back<br />And hurried away to the utility shack.<br /><br />The rest of the angels watched him depart<br />And said, “Dear Peter, please do impart<br />How you should know that special gift<br />Would give the Lord above a lift.<br />Did he drop hints how much he loathes<br />The time it takes to dry his clothes?”<br /><br />St. Peter smiled and shook his head.<br />“No, not a bit of it,” he said.<br />“There were no clues, as I recall,<br />Nor hints of any kind at all.<br />But wherefore do you all enquire?<br />Sure, don’t you know? God loves a drier.”</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-53635680459047247082007-08-03T16:16:00.001+01:002007-08-03T16:16:31.627+01:00Silent Night Part II<div align="center">See! The blackbird sits and warbles<br />On the glintzy Christmas baubles.<br />Hark! The turtle doves are calling<br />Through the flurries gently falling.<br />Lo! The robin redbreast singing,<br />Choir to joyous church bells ringing.<br />Holy Night, as clear as crystal,<br />Someone hand me my air pistol.<br /> </div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-34955789383672963362007-08-03T16:15:00.001+01:002007-08-03T16:15:58.556+01:00Silent Night?<div align="center">Silent Night, Holy Night,<br />Kids soon put sleep to flight.<br />Who’s that clattering my front door?<br />I can’t stand “Silent Night” any more.<br />Leave me in heavenly peace,<br />Leave me in heavenly peace.<br /><br />Silent Night, Holy Night,<br />Chamber pot from a height.<br />Soon told them little brats where to go,<br />Standing there in the yellowing snow,<br />Christ, roll on Christmas morn,<br />Christ, roll on Christmas morn.<br /><br />Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht,<br />Sie sind jetzt Nummer acht.<br />Warum kommen Sie zu diesem Haus?<br />Schein ich mir wie Sankte Niklaus?<br />Ich habe jetzt kein mehr Geld,<br />Ich habe jetzt kein mehr Geld.</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343756515439882280.post-5443996627755793382007-08-03T16:14:00.000+01:002007-08-03T16:15:07.520+01:00Post Christmas Miracle<div align="center">The turkey meat was at an end,<br />The ham had been devoured,<br />The stuffing now was history,<br />The trifle-cream had soured.<br /><br />The mince-pie box was full of crumbs,<br />The tangerines were black,<br />I looked inside our empty fridge,<br />Just longing for a snack.<br /><br />“There’s not a thing to eat in here,”<br />I called out to my wife.<br />“It’s time we did a shop again,<br />It’s back to real life.”<br /><br />She looked inside the fridge and said,<br />“Now that I don’t believe!<br />Did someone eat the cheeses that<br />I bought on Christmas Eve?”<br /><br />“Not me!” said I. “Not me!” said Neil.<br />“Not me!” said our Louise.<br />“It must have been the Holy Ghost –<br />He’s awful fond of cheese.”<br /><br />“Three small cheeses fat and round,”<br />She furrowed up her brow.<br />“But did I put them in the fridge?<br />I’m not so certain now.”<br /><br />We looked beneath the Christmas tree,<br />The wreath upon the wall.<br />The cards upon the mantelpiece,<br />We checked them one and all.<br /><br />We hunted high, we hunted low,<br />We hunted in between,<br />But the roundy cheeses, small and fat,<br />Were nowhere to be seen.<br /><br />I searched our room, I searched our Neil’s,<br />I even searched Louise’s.<br />Then, peering in the crib, I yelled,<br />“Ah, look! The baby cheeses!”<br /> </div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0