Odes – Poems Written in Celebration or Dedication
Introduction
The following poems were a little bit of fun, written during covid-19 lockdown periods to keep me occupied.
Ode to the Hair Styling / English Teaching / Gin Distilling Bloke
The guy’s name is Jason, familiar to his friends as Jay,
He juggles three professional roles, doing one or all on any particular day,
In his leisure time he enjoys life’s simple things, he certainly isn’t bourgeois,
In addition to his love of cooking, he enjoys strumming away on his guitar.
After his teenage school years, he went travelling around planet earth,
Observing how much a life’s opportunity, is dictated by one’s country of birth,
Of all the places he’s been to, he enthuses most about his time in India,
Jay saw its cultural and physical beauty with his own eyes, he needn’t rely upon media.
His first professional role was as a hair stylist, he shouldn’t be called a barber,
Being successful he once worked in Buck House, even without a royal charter,
He was there before the funeral of Diana, the tragic Princess of Wales,
Witnessing the hair styling of a French princess, with his ears on alert for gossipy tales.
He spent much of his early working life in London, at posh salons in Mayfair,
It’s doubtful that many of his customers, were getting by on state welfare,
He once bleached a famous footballer’s hair, Gazza he was called,
Nobody apart from he and Jay knew the real reason – his anxiety about going bald.
Jay has two splendid sons, young men named Griff and Blake,
They’re both bright and outgoing, like their dad that’s no mistake,
Jay became engaged to Claire, she has a ring on her finger as proof,
It seems they’re in no hurry to marry, let’s hope it’s not a spoof.
They’ve a motorhoming passion, having trundled through France, Germany and Belgium,
When out for a walk they’ve Arnie the dog in tow, often dragging a little behind them,
Jay loves literature enormously, he late flowered as a school teacher,
Despite appearances he’s actually rather clever, but I’ll try hard not to flatter.
Jay’s reached his early fifties, his middle life phase about to begin,
He and Claire opened a bar in Newcastle, to sell their Staffordshire Gin,
They’re 2020 small business of the year, though still running up that hill,
One day they’ll fondly reminisce on the delivery from China, of that sodding bloody still.
Ode to the Bloke at Number Five
In the future we’ll look back on the Corona lockdown of two-thousand and twenty,
And of Lynton helping us out when our garage supplies were running on empty,
There was covid-19 and its social distancing burdens,
Yet we discovered common interests in our neighbouring reflections and gardens.
On Thursday evenings at 8pm we’d all stand by our house fronts and give a clap,
Lynton sometimes missed his hands and it appeared as a flap,
We observed neighbours we hadn’t seen before,
They’d previously been hidden, behind their front door.
We shared a love for a Deirdre, our mobile home… his wife,
They’ll be with us and cherished, for the rest of our life,
Lynton worked for Newcastle council as an electrician – that’s a spark,
He was a foreman, so he expended little actual effort, but enjoyed having a lark.
I’d ring the bell at number five, expecting a chat,
He’d often respond “I’m just eating, I’ll come around in a bit”,
I worried Deidre was bulking him up and he’d be getting fat,
Or perhaps he was stalling me, ‘cus I was becoming a nuisance and a tw4t.
As the weeks went by I took washers, screws and tape,
I saw the inside of his garage to which he’d often escape,
It was a passion in his life, he was proud to keep it tidy,
And where Deirdre dismissed him to when he’d been naughty.
He joked about his bald head, he wasn’t ashamed,
Of looking like a golf club, or some other implement / appendage which cannot be named,
We set walking discovery challenges for a bit of fun,
Ruth and I tried diligently to succeed, but the Rowleys made every excuse under the sun.
Lynton told me about Baskervilles, we bought planks to make tubs and receptacles,
Enabling Ruth to fulfil her new passion of gardening, to grow vegetables,
We were surprised to learn that Lynton grew raspberries for making jam,
Then topped it off with a crumble… what an amazing man.
Ode to Hannah in Studio 7¾
In times to come we’ll look back on the spring of two-thousand and twenty,
As the period of covid-19, but more of Hannah working intently,
She was seeking a haven, to concentrate with no distraction,
We found her a venue which didn’t quell motivation.
Whenever we looked out from the kitchen window,
She’d be grafting away in her cherished studio,
The weather was hot, so the windows were wide,
The mesh was drawn down to keep out the flies.
She worked so hard, with her knowledge and intellect,
We were compelled to admire her efforts, we felt deep respect,
She was fed with sandwiches and pasta, so her nosh wasn’t fertile,
Nevertheless, she always thanked us and beamed a lovely smile.
She’d be sat on the bench in front of her laptop screen,
The content of which from the kitchen couldn’t be seen,
We don’t know if she used our WiFi or played music aloud,
But the sight of her working so hard made us feel proud.
She worked on diligently until her 4th of June deadline,
When we received lovely chocs and a bottle of wine,
On her last day we headed to sleep as the day was closing,
Olivia later told me “Dad, Hannah was still there at three in the morning!!!”
Ode to the Man with Three Daughters
Sue and Ruth were getting stressed out, hoping Keith’s Luosko present will have arrived,
As a backup he might have to settle for this ode from Dave, which is terribly contrived,
He’d just have to chill out with a glass in hand, and wait for Sue’s pressie until 2021 Christmas,
She’ll aim to get him something in the words of Strictly’s C-R-H, which is absolutely fabulous.
He originates from the north east of England, on that nobody can disagree,
He insists that being born near Sunderland, doesn’t make him a Geordie,
His trade was as an HGV driver, so he can handle a big truck on the road,
He once parked one on a grass verge at Le May Close, but I really shouldn’t goad.
When Sue first met Keith in 1982, she was working in a tax office in Redhill,
Dunno if it was love at first sight, or she was just finding time to kill,
They got married in 1984, you could call it a whirlwind romance,
They’d found their partnership for life, and weren’t leaving anything to chance.
Keith changed jobs to a new role at the airport, filling airplanes with fuel,
I’ve always thought of it as a bit of a doddle, but maybe that sounds a little cruel,
When I returned from a Camp America trip to New York, at the age of nineteen,
He greeted me at the top of the airplane steps in Gatwick airport, an honour worthy of the Queen.
One of Keith’s hobbies was scuba diving, he had tons of kit in his Le May Close loft store,
But while on their honeymoon Joseph Wozny had tidied up, I shall say no more,
I recall fishes and a tank at 80 Kingsley Road, whatever happened to that?
I hope they didn’t become meals for Polly and Olly, in the pre-dog days of owning a cat.
Another of Keith’s hobbies was motorcycling, he ventured around Europe with his mates,
He’s had Suzukis and BMWs, but the Triumph Bonneville was maybe his favourite,
His passion had to come to an end, on a slippery French roundabout,
Keith knackered up his shoulder, so his biking days had received a knockout.
Since retiring he’s spent more time mellowing out, with his preferred TV genre of sci-fi,
Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica or Space 1999, all of them dreadful enough to make Sue want to cry,
Keith has three wonderful daughters, each makes him so proud and brimming with love,
L.E.A. all love him back adoringly, more than he could ever have dreamed of.