A.J. Walker


May 2021

Going Home To Bed

Going Home to Bed

Sculptured isolated hardness,
skyscrapers of tumbled fossiled ocean-life.
Sea rumbles in relentless.

Sonic booms when the waves strike just right.
Jurassic souls separated from their sedimentary beds,
Restored to the sea by its might.

Ode to Winter On Fazakerley Station

Ode to Winter on Fazakerley Station

Reflective workmen sit beneath a tree,
smiling and laughing - on a tea-break high.
Bitter cold breeze sends shivers right through me;
a pale yolk sun smears the Wedgewood blue sky.
Winter freshness always invigorate.
Clarity of the light, sharp as a pin,
train from Kirkby visible along the straight.
Meanwhile a lone blackbird jauntily sings.
Fleeces keeping others toastily warm,
while screeching brakes make me shiver again.
Stresses melting on the railway platform.
There’s something comforting traveling by train.
These relaxing moments precious to me,
but I’m gasping for a cup of tea.

Night Football

Night Football

The kids don’t play football on fields anymore,
And they don’t play it late at night.
They stand on street corners, scaring the locals;
There’s something here that’s not right?

When I was a kid we played football,
From when we got up ‘til passed nine.
I even ate extra carrots,
To make the Night Football shine.

We’d stay on the field ‘til our parents
Came storming down the road,
“You can’t see in this!” they’d shout,
but we would never be told.

Somewhere kids lost their taste
For this nocturnal football game
Playstations, X-boxes, crap telly....?
but it’s mainly the parents I blame

All the fields I pass now
remain dark and empty;
And all the kids seem bored,
and drink alcohol aplenty

Well, it’s time for a change,
Take a stand, one and all.

Lets take the alcohol back for us,

and give the kids Night Football.

Super Sunday

Super Sunday

Sundays always used to be
dark and dreary in memory.
Black and white movies on TV,
giant roasts, as big as me
Now grown up,
well, nearly,
it’s still spent with the TV

Super Sunday footy heaven,
in the pub until eleven
with a pint, or maybe seven,
kebab later?
well that’s a given.
Footy’s on, so get a bev in,
check out the girl who is servin’.

Sunday’s for football, not for church,
no need to leave me in the lurch
if you want to do some praying
footy’s what to put your faith in.

New Year Audit

New Year Audit

A new year, again.
Another chance to draw a line,
and start anew.
A fresh page to start from scratch,
opportunities, new plans to hatch.
But didn’t I do it this time last year?
Where exactly did it take me?
What did I say?
More exercise, less beer, less
fatty foods, a ban on idleness and

I promised to write more ‘stuff’,
to learn the guitar and keep in better
touch with friends.
Where are they now? What has
I could have the same list today.
If I audited my management plan I’d
get a big fat failure.
Fine plan, but no

Where’s the monitoring, the evidence of success?
Lost friends addresses, an inch or two on the waist.
Says it all.
Could do better.
Couldn’t do worse.
This year I’ll add a line.
Need to meet myself once a week
to check progress against self
improvement plan.

Not sure I can attend,
every week.

Schrodingers Poem

Schrodinger’s Poem

I wrote the perfect poem last night.
With the power to make grown men weep,
drive women to distraction.
Colours were bouncing of walls,
sounds exploding in crystal rainbows.
It was pervaded with the scent of Heaven; pure bliss.
Life, love, death described in arcs of
such images.
Listen with your eyes closed and the world outside
would fade like newsprint in a window.
Replaced by a Technicolour reality.
That’s how I recall it,
but I placed it in a box,
for protection.
In reverence.

Now struggling to remember more than a word,
I can’t open it.
After a couple of drinks and some cheese,
I’d scratched it down eagerly,
excited by my moments of brilliance.
Smiling at the word play, the similies and metaphors.
The words were Guinness fuelled genius super-saturated with Stilton
I couldn’t do better, no-one could.
Now this poetic masterpiece
lies two feet away
in a plain black box.
The world outside
unready for perfection.

Pythonesque visions jump into frame.
See two words and you’d cry,
three and you’d never be the same.
The blackness of the box overwhelms me,
expanding to fill my vision.
It’s a black hole, swallowing good and evil,
along with grey
In the box lies the perfect poem.
I know it in my heart.
I could rescue it for humanity.
and the box could reveal
my shopping list for
the Asda,
which I can’t seem to locate, but
can more readily recreate.

For now the box will remain
holding its sublime possibilities

Quest For The Perfect Pint

Quest for the Perfect Pint

Indian Pale Ales
Some chocolatey stout
Three dark ruby milds
My problems with gout

Banana bread bitter
Two Wiessen beer
Even Newcy Brown Ale
Beats bland lager here

Banter with the bar maid
Beer fuelled chat
A bit of Dutch courage
“I’d like some of that”

Drunken silliness
Over the top
Over exuberance
But full on hops

Will continue my quest
for the perfect drink
another time,
now my head’s in the sink.



A large grizzled man, with a cracked slab face,
awkwardly hunched, trying
to shrink,
to hide.

Oppressive heat breaks into
while acid words spit from his foul mouth.
An angry drunk, crackling like thunder,
railing against injustices
piled heavy on his shoulders over hard years.

Another drink.
Challenging what friends he has
to take it. To accept
Another drink.
Challenging his body to take it.
A sudden punch; bloody knuckles.
A dent in the wall,
the world now more damaged,
pock marked.
Closer to him.
But he feels no better.

A life full, involved,
but endured not enjoyed.
How he knew he would welcome,
the soft serenity of death.