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This poem describes an arrival ceremony that, as a man, I was perhaps privileged to witness each day upon turning up for work.



And you hear also a

Resounding – Snap!

As hands grab at

Elastic undergarments

A swing, and,

“How are you?”

And hoist

It starts at thigh

Then, swaying,


Then front and back

Are reasserted upwards

In bunches – Twang!

And – Thwack!

Then a pull down

At what must surely be

A woolly vest?

Al hidden thankfully

By baggy dress

A jerky sway

Always accompanies all of this

As onwards up

The whole lots put

Where it belongs

While this goes on

One wonders

Should one play

The gentleman

And look away?

Oh what to do

Or should one

Stare in disbelief

And say

“I’m fine”

“And how are you?!”

Adrian Spendlow

I am possibly being a bit crotchety and past it myself in this bit of a grumble and rant about older folks out there on the streets.

The Dozer’s Day

Fogies, Codgers

‘Saints preserve us!’

When will they ever learn?

Duffers, Wrinklies

Have got to be first

When they’ve got time to burn

Hoards of grey around the bus stop

Wound as tight as clockwork creatures

Looking out and bustling, fretting

As if they have somewhere to go

Buses stopping; average eight minutes

So why do they all come running up?

It’s not as if they have a deadline

Rushing, but no job to go to

Probably trying to reach the post office

Half an hour before it opens


Stretching out to peer for transport

Urgent little kerbside lemmings

When it does come, without a long wait,

They will expect to get on first

Here’s another with wheelie Zimmer

Hurtling for the beep of Crossing

When on the bus; they’ll want to talk loud

As if the whole bus wants to listen

Finger hovers by the buzzer

Looking out with urgent angst


When it stops they have to be first

Why on earth are we to give way!

Once ahead they go on slow down

Reducing all to brain-numb pace

And if you find yourself behind one

When at last you hit the street

They will stop and slowly turn round

To get a look at who you are

Swinging like an ancient galleon

Checking one for killer eyes


If it was a Chav behind them

Their stance would have him raging

Wondering who they’re looking at

Blocking path to cashing Giro.

Eventually the post office opens

And PINs are muttered loudly

Buttons pressed too many times each

Every single pension pence extracted

Off to shops in frantic panic

Home for ten the days work done

Fogies, Codgers

‘Saints preserve us!’

When will they ever learn?

Duffers, Wrinklies

Have got to be first

When they’ve got time to burn

Adrian Spendlow

And something a bit more proper maybe:

Enlivened; in Gratitude

Just the right words

Spoken unexpectedly

Raise the spirit within

Enlivening the self

Making all possible

Seeing earlier heaviness

As part of joy’s compass

Embraced, whole

Tall and complete

Gratefully aware

Such a kindness

Can be passed forward

In future perfect moment

With, just the right words

Adrian Spendlow

Related articles: Poemspotters, gigs, Helen Burke, Haiku, clips, gardening, testimonials, how to book

Adrian Spendlow: 01904 789950 / 07952 425670. 6 Acomb Mews, Front Street, Acomb, York YO243BQ
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