NOT Just Saying

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Just Saying …

You say that you’re ‘just saying.’
But why the need to add
‘Just saying’ to what you’ve just ‘just said’?
I thought that you just had
Just said what you had wanted to,
So why, I’m not quite sure
You’re telling me that you’re ‘just saying.’
Why ‘just say’ any more?
We’re all ‘just saying’ what we’ve just said.
To add ‘just saying’ means nowt.
So, can I ask you nicely
Just to try and cut it out?
If you don’t think your view
Will get across what you’re conveying
Perhaps you should refrain from saying.
So, don’t ‘just say.’
Just saying!

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Links:
Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soap, Neighbours

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Georgie Porgie

Georgie Porgie, my oh my.
Dissed the birds to make them cry.
Thinks he’s smart and thinks he’s witty.
Posts a lot of arse and titty.

See him have a laugh on Twitter.
If you don’t like it, you’re just bitter.
For he is the king of spiel,
Gives no fucks, girls, how you feel.

Georgie Porgie, what a guy,
Disses birds to make them cry.
Says it’s banter, no harm done.
Just a nice bloke having fun.

Cos everybody knows it’s cool
Subjecting birds to ridicule.
It’s not his fault they might object.
Well, they’re birds, mate, what can you expect!

Georgie Porgie, sweet as pie,
Disses birds to make them cry,
But loves the ones who laugh along.
So he feels, powerful, big and strong.

Well, Georgie, mate, I will not play.
And no, it’s Fucking Not Okay.
So piss right off, you first class runt.
If I liked you more, I’d call you cunt.

Your words have power, but mine do too
I’d watch my back if I were you.
Georgie Porgie, you I thank,
You pathetic nasty piece of wank.

As a poet of the spoken word,
I have a voice that’s widely heard.
So come and see, when I next perform.
Misogynists’ poems go down a storm.

You thought I was some mad old gran.
Well, think again you sad, weak man.
Now run along, Wee Willy Winkie,
Never try and pick on Pinky!

Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author, or follow this blog
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soap, Neighbours

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A Wannabe

A wannabe’s fine if you wannabe you.
If you wannabe kind and you wannabe true.

But a wannabe’s sad if you’re desperate for fame,
And be seen with the folks at the top of their game.

If you follow like sheep, if you hang round and stalk,
Then your conscience and you should be having a talk.

If you wannabe known, then you need a good reason,
As wannabes don’t last for more than a season.

If you wannabe rich, well then work for it maybe,
By living your own life, not faking it, baby.

It’s nice to get signatures, selfies and so-on,
But on your CV, well it’s not much to go on.

And even the famous need time to relax
In private, no autograph hoards on their back.

And some, out of kindness will never refuse,
But surely their own time is when they should choose.

A wannabe’s cool when you have personality,
Otherwise sweetie, it’s just not reality.

Focus on wannabe kind and not fake.
Just don’t be a user, a spiv on the make.

Bandwagon people don’t sit very well
With the ones you are chasing, oh yes, they can tell.

Be liked for your own sake, respect those you seek,
Don’t shove phones in faces – that’s rude and it’s and weak.

I don’t wannabe just a wannabe sort,
Well known for the sake of it – Nice can’t be bought.

For people are people whoever they are,
And nice isn’t measured in money or car.

A wannabe’s fine if you wannabe you.
If you wannabe kind and you wannabe true.

© Carol Ann Wood
October 2018

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How To Tell If You’re A Poet

Do you wake up at two thirty with a rhythm in your head?
With a phrase that just won’t go away, but lingers there instead?

Do you turn the light on, rub your eyes, and start to madly scribble
On the pad you keep beside your bed, without a single quibble?

Do you think in rhyme when perhaps the time is not exactly right?
In the middle of a meeting, or, like me, the dead of night?

Does your brain dictate the time you put your words into a verse?
Do you have to finish it at once, when on the loo (or worse?)

Do you need to eavesdrop all the time to find your subject matter?
The bus, the Primark changing room, where people have a natter?

Is your poetry the heart and soul of everything you do?
Is it not a hobby, not a fad, but simply part of you?

If you grimace at the chance remarks that you get thrown your way,
‘So you dabble, do you? Oh, what fun to pass the time of day!’

If you mutter at the clichés and the patronising smirk
From a highly-paid executive who says it’s not real work,

If you live and breathe to hone your craft and hardly earn a crust,
If you scribe because you’re driven, and you scribe because you must.

Then you truly are a poet and the writing’s on the wall.
Words are wonderful my poet friend, so don’t ignore the call!

© Carol Ann Wood
October 2018

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Poets Do Not Dabble

Poets Do Not Dabble.
We don’t turn our hand to writing.
We write.
It’s our brains that compose the words,
The structure, the verse,
And the hands simply obey instructions
Forming the line breaks and the punctuation.
Poets don’t dabble with a cup of tea
On a rainy day, when bored.
Our grey matter demands that
We pay full attention to instructions.
And we write.
Poetry is composed on the bog,
In the early hours of the morning.
At important meetings, at parents’ evenings,
During terribly dull sex.
When you’re laying on a doctor’s couch,
Legs akimbo,
With his hand examining your genitals.
Poetry is composed during sessions of Vin Yasa Yoga.
Whilst others are feeling the vibe,
You are searching for an illusive line
And wondering if you can grab your phone
From the pocket of your yoga pants,
To write in notes ‘Poets Do Not Dabble.’
Poetry is composed during inappropriate moments,
And no matter how much you try and pack it in a compartment,
It won’t go away.
If a poet leaves the words till a convenient time,
They will sit for hours with a blank page and a pen,
And immediately, they will find that
They have a parents’ evening or a meeting to get to,
They’re late for their yoga class,
Their nether regions itch and they must see a doctor,
They need to have dull sex.
Poets do not dabble.
They write.

© Carol Ann Wood
October 2018

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Jealousy Is Such A Negative Thing

So you say you’re more worthy, more worthy than me,
And you’re feeling so angry it’s quite plain to see.
You’re having a tantrum and I’ve got the blame.
But I’m not into playing your competitive game.

Every day there’s a drama of all your own making.
I’m so not at fault for the turns you are taking.
I dance to my own tune, it’s my words I’ll sing.
And jealousy is such a negative thing.

Why should I get grief when I’ve done nothing wrong?
And yes, pal, I have been a fan all along.
I may not have spent lots of money because
You don’t know how busy my life back then was.

You don’t know my past and you maybe don’t care,
It’s ‘all about you’ and how ‘life is unfair.’
Be happy for others and rewards it will bring,
And jealousy is such a negative thing.

Don’t make me feel bad for the joy I’ve been given,
Let go of the anger with which you are riven.
Instead of playing copy cat, try just being you,
Work out who that is and your shine will come through.

Believe me, I never ‘fit in’ anywhere,
But I’ve learned not to worry and learned not to care.
And that’s why my real friends like me as I am.
I don’t follow others, I’m a lion, not a lamb.

One day when you’re older, you’ll realise it’s best
To try and be happy, not envy the rest.
I wish you good fortune, but you need to grow up,
Stop taking a swig of the spitefulness cup.

Quit trying to be top dog and you will find, maybe
You’ll be liked more when not acting out like a baby.
And don’t check my Insta for ‘likes’ from our hero,
It’s really not cool and the rating’s a zero.

Don’t get eaten up with your anger and spite,
Just because you have issues does not make it right.
I won’t let your words spoil my fun any more,
If you want a friendship then this is the score:

Be happy in your skin, I’m happy in mine.
Just stop trying too hard and your life will be fine.
Be chilled out and don’t get consumed with bad stuff,
For it isn’t just you who’s had life a bit tough.

We all have our history, bad days and pain,
But somehow we learn to get back up again.
Be a generous spirit, cos kindness is king,
And jealousy is such a negative thing.

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I Do Not Have To Justify

I do not have to justify
A single thing I do.
I am happy in my own skin
If it’s all the same to you.

I will not hide myself away
Just so that you can shine.
Create some thunder of your own,
Not try and steal from mine.

I owe no one apologies
For the fact that I am me.
I’m not in competition.
I’m just who I want to be.

You do not know the path I trod
To get to here and now.
And so you have no right to judge
On why, and where, and how.

I do not have to justify
The way I dress or act.
I never follow all the crowd.
For I’m a single act.

And what you see is what you get,
I treat all folk the same.
They’re kind to me, I’m kind to them.
And that’s my only game.

I don’t do playground attitudes,
One-upmanship or gloating.
I’ll tell my life the way it is.
No frills or sugar-coating.

I do not have to justify
My fun, my likes, my space.
So get your own lives sorted first
My business? Not your place!

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Do I know Who I Am?

How it feels after a nocturnal epileptic seizure

I know instantly in that moment I awake
That while I was asleep, my limbs began to shake.
I know the second that my limbs refuse to move
That today won’t be a day
I’m getting in the groove.
I know my brain has just misfired,
Behaving very badly.
I know today I’ll have a horrid migraine, sadly.
I know that food may taste of cardboard,
That my words will be unclear.
And yet I’m not sure who I am,
Nor what month, or day, or year.
I have no memory of yesterday,
Or anything much, at all.
It’s just a blank to be filled in,
No writing on the wall.
I know for hours, or days,
Or even in the weeks that follow,
I will be feeling pretty down,
Confused, depressed and hollow.
I also know there’s very little I can do
Except to see this time of utter weirdness
Safely through.
And yet, I never know the time
I’ll have to face this stuff again.
Because nocturnal epilepsy
Forgets to tell you when.

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Anyone Can Write A Poem.

(But Maybe Not Everyone Should)

This is written for every person who, when I tell them I’m a poet, spouts unoriginal verse at me, because they think all poetry is either ‘Roses Are Red’ or a limerick. And they think poetry is easy and set out to try and prove it.

And it’s written for all the people who send in ‘their’ amusing ditties to radio stations without revealing that they didn’t write it themselves.

I wax lyrical, you wax bits.
I write poems and you sculpt tits.
I build words and you build flats.
I write prose, you rescue cats.

Don’t quote limericks at me,
I won’t wax bits or mend your knee.
Your rôle ain’t simple, nor is mine.
There’s skill and craft in every line.

And, writing poems is not for all:
I can’t heal limbs nor kick a ball.
Don’t try and tell me what I do
Is easy shit, it isn’t true.

If your idea of penning verse
Is ‘There once was’ – or even worse,
Don’t patronise me when I speak,
To score a point or attention-seek.

Cos I wax lyrical, you wax wood.
I bake words and you bake food.
If poetry’s not your cup of tea
Just leave the wordsmith stuff to me.

By all means, if it sounds inviting,
Please do try your hand at writing.
Never, though, ‘because you can.’
(And don’t write rhyme that doesn’t scan.)

Don’t quote your red, red rose at me.
I like originality.
I won’t rhyme bird with turd or heard.
But I will have the final word.

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Granny Gets the Sex Toy

(A precautionary tale of Christmas preparations)

I’ve done my Christmas shopping, I’m getting quite ahead!
My haul of gifts are waiting to be wrapped, beneath my bed.
And so, with Christmas carols playing, in spirit, I begin,
A plate of mince pies by my side
And a little nip of gin.

Outside the snow is falling as I Sellotape and wrap,
(Well actually it’s sleet but then I thought that sounded crap.)
I write my sticky labels and I eat another pie,
And I take another nip of gin
To help the task fly by.

I’m feeling rather jolly, and smug to know that others
Leave gift buying till the very last for aunts and mates and mothers.
It’s easy once you’re used to it, and so to celebrate
I have another nip of gin and the last pie on the plate.

The carols still are ringing out and now my job is done,
The gifts all wrapped quite prettily – it’s even been good fun.
But wait – where are the labels that I got from a value range?
I know I stuck them on each one, but they’ve fallen off! How strange!

Well sod this for a lark, cos I’m not going to start again,
I’m sick of frigging Christmas and the whole thing is a pain.
So Granny gets the sex toy, and Uncle gets the make-up.
It won’t do either any harm and will give their lives a shake up.

Yes Granny gets the sex toy, my mate the potted plants,
My brother gets the oven gloves and my boss the fur skinned pants.
My mother gets the chick-lit and my teenage niece a pen,
And Granny gets the sex toy cos I an not starting again!

Yes Granny gets the sex toy, and as for those pink knickers
They were meant for my cousin Kay, but they’re probably now the vicar’s.
I may have made a slight mistake in large or small amounts
But Granny gets the sex toy – and it’s the frigging thought that counts!

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Things That Were Never Okay

Recently BBC Radio Cambridgeshire reported increased domestic abuse statistics for Peterborough. A local woman was interviewed about her experience.

A man messaged the programme to say that the statistical rise in domestic abuse was just couples not being able to work out ‘tit-for-tat’ arguments between themselves; that, nowadays, anyone risked arrest if they ‘so much as raised their voices’ to their partners; that people are coming forward to report things which he considers trivial.

This is my response.

It was never okay to raise a fist
Or to tell her she was rubbish
Every single day.
It was never okay to force yourself upon her
While she was sleeping. No. Not okay.
It was never okay to try and keep her down at heel.
To tell her what to wear, how to think, or what to feel.
It was never okay to tell her
Whom she could see, and when.
Or, to watch her struggle home with heavy load
As you drove by in your car. Again.
It was never okay to say
That her writing was a joke,
Then pretend in public
To be the ideal, decent, honest bloke.
It was never okay to threaten her,
To laugh in her face, or to put your hands
Around her neck.
It was never okay to make her feel
Day in, day out, a pathetic, trembling wreck.
It was never okay to hide your secrets
And to tell her this was now her life.
To say she’d made her bed
And so must be a loyal, subservient wife.
All these things you said and did were not okay.
And are not okay now
To be endured by those still entrapped
By some mistaken vow.
It is not tit-for-tat, a silly tiff, exaggeration.
It is not okay, and so I WILL speak for those
Still in a world of daily desperation.
I will speak to tell them they can leave,
To help them know there is a way.
I will speak to let them know
Abuse is not their fault.
They do not have to live that life of pain.
Abuse is not okay.

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