Friday night

a one car crash at the charles cross junction 

cone zone closure at the intersection 

rain falls heavily on the black top 

traffic lights cycle go, amber, stop 

blue lights flashing, emergency 

fire and rescue cutting someone free 

onlookers hang from windows staring 

instagram twitter snapchat sharing 

police collect witness statements 

rain continues with no abatement 

lights reflect of the slick tarmac 

shattered glass and a broken roof rack 

teen drunk driver stands obdurate 

his passenger not so fortunate 

girlfriend rushed to the a and e 

driver is a walking casualty 

not so worried she was nearly killed 

more concerned about the drink he spilled 

fluorescent yellow jacketed men 

measure the scene, then measure again 

wreckage cleared within the hour 

blood washed away by the downpour 

clouds clear up and moon shines down 

on another friday night in town 

Steve Wheeler © 20 September, 2020

This poem was first published in Urban Voices by Steve Wheeler, Wheelsong Books, 2020.

You only ever quote from Friends

These days you only quote from Friends; 

what happened to your Nietzsche? 

The philosophy of Chandler Bing 

has become your favourite feature 

The monologues of Monica 

and the rhetoric of Rachel 

imbue your conversation 

at the expense of Marx and Hegel. 

From the theory of Unagi, 

to the smelly cat conjecture, 

and the “how you doin’?” thesis, 

they’re all found in your lecture. 

Could I be more bored of Joey? 

I’ve had my fill of Phoebe Buffay, 

and listening to Ross is dull, 

he has nothing deep to say. 

There’s only one Friends philosophy 

that rings out strong and true; 

so no matter what the future holds, 

you know: I’ll be there for you. 

Steve Wheeler © 16 September, 2020

Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Daily Mail in the style of John Cooper Clarke

i'd rather brave a force ten gale 

be swallowed by a humped back whale 

or grab a tiger by its tail 

than read a page from the daily mail 

i'd sooner fight with christian bale 

or pick my teeth with a rusty nail 

after eating several uncooked snails 

than read a page from the daily mail 

i'd rather wear top hat and tails 

while searching for the holy grail 

or watch a full season at port vale 

than read a page from the daily mail 

i'd sooner learn to swear in braille 

while eating bags of uncooked kale 

ride cattle class on the network rail 

any of the above would prevail 

over having to read the daily mail 

Steve Wheeler © 10 September, 2020

This poem was first published in Urban Voices by Steve Wheeler, Wheelsong Books, 2020.

Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Daily Mail in the style of Dylan Thomas

The Daily Mail

We gently, 

inexorably wander

Into that dark corner store

But thus to avoid 

That cursed tabloid 

We must our impulses ignore

For gold 

we shall not squander

Steve Wheeler © 14 September, 2020

This poem was first published in Urban Voices by Steve Wheeler, Wheelsong Books, 2020.

Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Broken rainbows

i make my progress slowly through a cloud of traffic smoke / picking up the pieces of the rainbows that you broke / the colours scattered miserably ‘cross the dirty pavement slabs / oblivious, homebound workers shouting out to hail their cabs / headlights force harsh shadows and a shrinking of their souls /

reflecting off the oil and water floating in the potholes / broken rainbow pieces crunching under aching feet / undreamt dreams forgotten through action incomplete / images engraved in concrete bringing slow decay / beneath the dirty viaduct and across the alleyway //

headlights trace their beams against the fractured warehouse walls / fog descending slowly as the urban darkness calls / downtown the neon lights blaze, glowing their silent gleams / overhead the streetlights throw their harsher sulphur beams / creatures of the night are slowly beginning to emerge / both undesirable and seductive, their lives will converge / how this ends no one can accurately predict / early hours before that unavoidable conflict / human derelicts and dissipated drunken wrecks / falling out from bars and the noisy discotheques / wearily they stagger to their lonely cardboard beds / grasping empty pockets, nursing their aching heads //

at dawn the cycle starts, it all comes round again /

life is piling pain on hurt, and piling hurt on pain / so i’ll head on westwards against the traffic on the street / avoiding contact with the human flotsam that I meet / still gathering up the rainbow pieces where each one fell / scattered in the slow chaos of this urban concrete hell //

 Steve Wheeler © 13 September, 2020

This poem was first published in Urban Voices by Steve Wheeler, Wheelsong Books, 2020.

Photo from Pxhere

Daily Mail in the style of Maya Angelou

Which poets do you enjoy reading? For me there are many, but there's one in particular at the moment. I'm inspired by Brian Bilston and have read a lot of his work. Recently I was wading through You Took The Last Bus Home, and one poem stood out for me (and there are many). It was his How Much I Dislike The Daily Mail that appealed to both my sense of justice and also sense of humour. This prompted me to wonder what other poets might have thought of the Daily Mail. I decided to write a series of poems in the styles of other poets to explore the idea. Here's the first, in the style of Maya Angelou. More to follow!

The Daily Mail

When it comes to me, unwanted,
Beckoning me
To read its drivel,
Where the prejudices lie.

Offering me, as to a child, instruction
Right wing invective, diatribe.
Baubles of stolen stories.
Trinkets of borrowed fiction.
Trunks of hatred words,

I CRY.

Steve Wheeler © 10 September, 2020

This poem was first published in Urban Voices by Steve Wheeler, Wheelsong Books, 2020.

Reciprocity failure

I sent you a Valentine 

You gave me a piece of your mind 

I offer you optimism 

You send me your criticism 

I offered you my open hand 

You told me I was bland 

I offered you my heart 

You warned me not to start 

I told you my vision 

You gave me your decision 

I walked away 

You slayed my day 

Steve Wheeler © 3 September, 2020

image source

On Plymouth Hoe

Graphic by Steve Wheeler

above, the pale clouds pass on by 

while the gulls insistently cry 

and gazing south the wilder sea 

is tamed by dark breakwater 

and the calmer tamar mouth 

the sea salt wind is calling me 

whenever I go 

to the plymouth hoe 

the smeaton tower lined 

red and white 

pointing skyward 

glimmering in the fading light 

for decades past 

a welcoming sight 

for plymouth folk 

returning homeward 

where the sea winds blow 

up on the plymouth hoe 

the grand hotel 

its fronted palisades 

of weathered white and grey 

the wedding cake 

and the bronze of drake 

their lustre now fast fades 

and the tinside lido 

rust over paint plays 

all remnants of the glory days 

and all we know 

of the plymouth hoe 

above and left 

the staddon heights 

mount edgecumbe 

 looming on the right 

drake’s island holds 

the centre ground 

dominating the heart 

of the sound 

and all around 

the currents flow 

and the sea winds blow 

across the plymouth hoe 

Steve Wheeler © 2 September, 2020

This poem was first published in Urban Voices by Steve Wheeler, Wheelsong Books, 2020.