A.J. Walker

writerer

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
unknowing,
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
mundanity.
In the box lies the perfect poem.
I know it in my heart.
I could rescue it for humanity.
Opened
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
unopened
holding its sublime possibilities.




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.


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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.


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
prevarication.

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

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.