CONSCIENCE

Peter Woodgate

One day God spoke to me

And I could clearly see,

Not outwardly, but deep within my soul.

My transgressions were laid bare,

As if for all to share

And confessing every sin was now my goal.

Oh, I had this strange belief

Almighty God was real, my chief,

And all before my eyes revealing him.

So, I trod religious routes

Wearing out so many boots

On the path to rid myself of every sin

But each denomination entered

Had a schism, was self-centred

And I questioned why these factions should occur,

Surely, He, who fashioned all,

Should have the final call

And faith not for diversity to stir,

Mankind, acutely flawed

Cannot be guided or assured

By a God that seems imperfect just like me.

It appears that god allows

So much pain on beaten brows

With death, destruction, grief, for all to see.

My blind faith has faded fast

And I fear it will not last,

Yet conversely, I see things that make me wonder,

The detailed structure and design

Of each creature down the line

A rainbow, lightning and almighty thunder.

I can’t believe it’s all by chance

That this earth has learnt to dance

Our existence then is open to suggestions.

If it’s true, God is our maker

And I should meet him at the crater

Then I'll beg answers to so many questions.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

THE JOLLY SAILOR

  THE JOLLY SAILOR 

By Peter Woodgate

I knew a jolly sailor

He went to see, of course

Not sea because he cannot swim

But he could ride a horse.

He thought that he could make some dosh

And went to the race track near by

He pretended that he was a jockey

I’m a champion they heard him cry.

The owners of the favourite horse

Allowed him to ride their prize mare

Unaware that he had agreed to a deal

That would bring him half of the share.

Well the race went ahead

And off went the horse

Heavily backed to win it was

But came in last of course.

There was an enquiry

An outcry, I think,

Then the sailor, not jolly,

Was locked away in the clink.

It was a short sentence

And the sailor was free

Whilst serving in jail

He dreamt of the sea

So down to Southend

He went full throttle

Then low and behold

He found a strange bottle

Not just the bottle

A letter inside

It was still readable

Despite the strong tide.

As he read the strange letter

He was horrified to note

A young lass was marooned

On Canvey, afloat.

So off strait away

And jolly once more

the sailor would rescue

Her from the distant shore.

Well, to cut it short

Imagine the glee

When he first saw her

And she looked at he

What followed was love

At first sight, no less

And now on the telly

O My what a mess.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

                               

ABORTED CALL

Peter Woodgate

It’s like this officer

I’ve found my wife in bed

With all this red stuff over her

I think she may be dead.

I don’t think she is breathing

Sometimes it’s hard to tell

She doesn’t often get aroused

And just makes my life Hell.

She says she might well have sex

With a robot or a dummy

And when I tell the blokes at work

They think it’s bloody funny.

But it’s not, I’m telling you

Cos she just sends me packing

I’m pretty good at foreplay

It’s after that I’m lacking.

What’s that you say , feel for her pulse,

Ok I’ll see if I can

This red stuff It’s all sticky

Hang on I think it’s jam.

Good God her eyes have opened

Sorry what did you say?

No officer ignore this call

I forgot it’s my BIRTHDAY.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

THE EVICTION

THE EVICTION 

By Peter Woodgate

 

Whilst dozing by the telly and well into a dream

Tranquility was shattered by a piercing scream

It seems Jo’s mum telephoned to say she’d seen a mouse

She wasn’t going to sleep a wink what’s more she’d sell the house.

When Jo regained composure she said don’t worry mum

Pete will come right over armed with torch and gun.

So, off I go to Tallow Gate to exorcise the beast

Being told it was quite big, two foot six at least.

When I get there Mum’s in the chair her skirt up to the light

“Can you see it?” She remarks, not a pretty sight.

“It went into the hall,” she says, as big as a bloody cat.

“Where did it come from? Where’s it gone? Do you think it is a rat?

And so with torch in hand I search each darkened place

And then inside the bathroom I see a tiny face

It’s poking out beside the bin, I have him now, I think

But out the little bleeder shoots, he’s quicker than a blink.

Down the hall and round the bend and into mums bedroom

I’ll never get him now, I’m sure, that’s what I assume

But just in time, help arrives, and Tony’s there on cue

“Well, what’s the score, how big is it and what is there to do?”

I saw that Tony came prepared and ready for the crunch

But with gloves and tea-towel I thought it more like lunch.

The tea-towel proved a master stroke and we cornered him at last

Pity that we wrecked the room and smashed a pane of glass.

We wrapped him in that tea-towel that scared and lonely mouse

And Tony set him free outside evicted from Big Momma’s house.

So in future if you see a rat or tiny mouse

Just call out catchers Pete and Tone no need then to grouse.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

  

PETRIFIED

 PETRIFIED

Peter Woodgate

“Where on earth has it gone?” Mary fumbled around in her pockets searching for for the tickets she had bought just 5 minutes earlier. Suddenly a feeling of de ja vu overcame her. 

“Can I help you?” a mysterious stranger appeared from nowhere. 

“No thank you,” Mary replied abruptly.

“Are you sure, you look so distressed,” the strangers voice had an air of calmness in it and Mary felt rather embarrassed as she continued to search in the pockets of her overcoat and jacket. She had agreed to meet her friend

but she had not turned up, hence the reason for Mary’s distress. 

“Perhaps this is what you are looking for?” 

Mary glanced at the outstretched gloved hand and, there they were, the admission tickets for Madam Tussauds. 

Feeling rather stupid Mary mumbled a “thank you” adding “I must have dropped them, how silly of me.” 

She found herself gazing into the eyes of the stranger,

They were dark, very dark and, as she studied his clothing,

the feeling of de ja vu crept up on her once again. 

He was wearing a top hat, a bow tie with a dress shirt, a dinner jacket with tails and striped trousers. How odd, she thought, as she retrieved the tickets from the gloved hand of the unusual looking stranger that stood before her. 

Mary thanked him again and was about to enter the exhibition when she felt his hand on her shoulder.

She spun around quickly as he spoke. 

“Allow me to accompany you, I can be your personal guide.

I am an expert on everything there is to know about all the exhibits. I am practically part of the furniture.” 

Although feeling awkward Mary thought she owed him something for finding her tickets and stammered an OK. 

As they wandered around the stranger, who had now introduced himself as Albert, clearly had vast knowledge of all the figurines they encountered. He was able to convey every last detail of each exhibit and, it appeared, before too long they had visited all but the Chamber of Horrors. 

Mary had not intended visiting this part and when she looked at her watch, she was aware that the exhibition would shortly be closing. Albert, however, insisted they visit this famous old section and she found herself gazing through bars at grisly scenes of murder and debauchery.

Suddenly, Mary Was aware that they were alone in what was now becoming a very spooky place. “I think we ought to be making our way back,”

she spoke nervously, “it will be closing shortly.” 

“There is just one more exhibit I need to show you,”

Albert ushered Mary along the corridor until they reached the final enclosure.

“ But there’s nothing in there,” Mary exclaimed, and was about to turn around when she felt herself being pushed

through the unlocked enclosure door. 

“What the Hell,” Mary had no time to finish her sentence before she felt the knife as it was thrust into her abdomen.

The feeling of de ja vu again swept over her as she slumped to the floor catching sight of Albert leaning over her before she passed out.

She came to and looked up at the figure still crouched over her, she recognized the clothes as those worn by Albert but she couldn’t see his face.

There was a spotlight shining down on Mary but his face was turned away toward the shadows. 

He didn’t move, she tried to, but couldn’t. She screamed

but no sound came out of her mouth, she was rigid. 

It was the following day and some early visitors had made their way to the Chamber of Horrors. Helen and her boyfriend Tom had been excited but shuddered at some of the exhibits on view. They were regular visitors to Madam Tussauds and for some reason loved the horror of squeamish scenes.

“Look Tom,” Helen turned to her boyfriend in excitement,

There’s a new exhibit.

They looked at the board which showed the details. 

JACK THE RIPPER WITH ONE OF HIS VICTIMS

MARY JANE KELLY 9th NOVEMBER 1888

“But you can’t see his face” Helen remarked disappointedly

“That’s because they don’t know for sure who he was,” Tom replied rather smugly.

 “Oh look at that poor woman’s face,” Helen sighed,

“It looks so real, there’s even a tear in her eye.”

 

A Scream was heard throughout the corridors of Hell…

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

  

DYLAN

                                                

 DYLAN   

By Peter Woodgate

When the day has been a grind

And there’s a problem on my mind

I know his love I’ll find.

 

When I’m feeling kind of blue

And I’m waiting in a queue

He’ll be waiting too.

 

He’ll be waiting there at home

To ensure I’m not alone

And in his eye sincerity and trust.

 

For although I may be weary

And the weather wet and dreary

He’ll spread a ray of sunshine through the dust.

 

He keeps a beady eye on me

Not two, he has just one you see

The other was a loss to glaucoma

 

But with one eye he can see

Just as good as you and me

And has a soft congenial persona.

 

With his head upon my knee

He will look with sympathy

Into my eyes and I will get the plot

 

For without a sound he’ll show

That I must up and go

And open a tin of Winalot.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

THE CHALLENGE

 THE CHALLENGE

By Peter Woodgate 

It stands before me

A challenge to end all challenges

Where do I begin?

How do I tackle the immense task ahead?

I see several openings

Each leading to a fresh challenge

A steep slope spirals upward

And I glimpse yet other openings

I see a well but my throat remains dry,

The task looks daunting,

Energy sapping,

Soul destroying,

Time consuming

And costly.

 

I slump down, close my eyes

And let my mind wander,

I need to break through

The walls of resistance,

Open the doors of expectancy,

Climb the stairway of fulfilment

In order to reach my goal.

 

I clear my mind

Of negative distractions

And see it framed

In all it’s glory

Magnificent colours edged with white

Rising from the lush ground underfoot

To a sumptuous sky

Where twinkling lights burst forth

From beautiful roses.

 

I sigh with satisfaction

The task complete,

Then, recognize the sound of heavy feet,

A voice booms out and I hear it bawl

“Come on you have to decorate the hall”

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

ADDICTS

 ADDICTS  (Spaced out) 

Peter Woodgate 

Wandering through

Decaying cities of the universe

Lost souls sift in vain

Each empty building reverberates

And crumbles with their pain.

They search for elusive paradise

Within the fix of dreams

But stare into an endless void

Without corners or of seams.

Each molecule within their frame

Forms the galaxy of despair

Where atoms explode

Within their heads

And stars light up their hair.

They slide into the orb of darkness

That black hole in the sky

Where visions are lost

And gravity

Stifles every cry.

Legs and arms and hands and feet

Become detached

And then they meet

As the souls rejoice

Without a choice

And oblivious

Of devastation.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

WHEN

 WHEN (TRIBUTE TO RUDYARD KIPLING)

By Peter Woodgate

WHEN YOU HAVE BEEN TRANSMUTED

FROM THE ESSENCE OF TIME

YET FIND YOURSELF JUST ONE AMONGST THE MANY

 

WHEN YOU HAVE EXISTED

FOR 5000 MILLION YEARS

AND WILL CONTINUE

FOR 5000 MILLION MORE

 

WHEN YOU CAN TAKE THE CHEMICAL ELEMENTS

AND BAKE THEM INTO THE MOST EXOTIC OF DISHES

AND STILL PRODUCE A SURPRISE FOR DESSERT

 

WHEN YOU CAN SHINE MORE BRIGHTLY

THAN THE BRIGHTEST OF, MOST PRECIOUS JEWELS

AND YET BE NO MORE THOUGHT OF

THAN THE AIR WE BREATHE

 

WHEN YOU CAN FEED THE MULTI-MILLION LIFEFORMS

THAT CO-EXIST IN ORGANISED CONFUSION

AND STILL HAVE HEART ENOUGH TO WARM THEM TOO

 

WHEN YOU HAVE DONE ALL THIS

WITH NO MORE GUIDANCE SAVE FOR NATURES PLAN

THEN YOU DESERVE A LITTLE PRAISE AT LEAST

 

AND WHICH IS MORE YOU WILL BE A SUN MY MAN.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            

 THE TOWER OF BABEL 

By Peter Woodgate 

Tier upon tier towering triumphantly

Bricks and mortar moulded magnificently

Fulcrum and pulley powered to precision

Mankind’s ego elegantly elevated.

 

Surely this structure would signal his significance

Give him a chance to chat to the creator

God would be pleased and impressed by his power

Invite him to sit on a seat by his side.

 

But the plan fell to pieces and plummeted

God was angry and his wrath wreaked ruination

Souls were scattered upon seas and sands

Shipwrecked ln torment with tear upon tear.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Marilyn

 Marilyn 

Peter Woodgate

You were a perfect bastard

until the world’s impurities

tainted your soul.

 

Insecurity and exploitation

tore virgin flesh from your bones

and exhibited dreams to the world.

 

They moulded you into a celebrity,

your face peering from every magazine,

you were a star!

 

Shining in the heavens of Hollywood

your light pierced the gloom

of shadowy streets

illuminating a public, eager

to sample the image you had become,

exuberance personified.

 

But, tragedy lay behind the facade of fame

your beauty, disguised by the cosmetics of life.

 

Did you feel sadness as cameras laid you bare

your smile stolen by a million hearts?

 

Was the absence of love a bitter pill to swallow?

Did you find comfort in the arms of sleep?

And did you leap into that final abyss?

 

Or, were you pushed?

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

THE FOX

 THE FOX

Peter Woodgate

 

I saw him again today

Head down and slow of pace

Against the rain, this was no race,

It was as if

This wasn’t relished

Something he just had to do

But, in his mind, hellish.

 

He would stop now and then

Look round at me

What does he see?

I thought.

 

Whatever it was

I’m certain that

He remained uncaring

His beady eyes staring

At a being that would not understand

The world that he lived in.

He shook his head

As if to indicate

This was his thought

But no,

It was simply to clear his head of rain

Before climbing the fence, again,

Then, he was gone.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

PICASSO (ACROSTIC)

 PICASSO

(ACROSTIC)

Peter Woodgate

 

Concluding that the world of art

Used naturalistic images

Because the masters showed him so,

Irregular lines and shapes and colours

Surged from his mind and onto canvas,

Modern art had left the womb.

 

Riding on a wave of eccentricity

Unparalleled in critic’s eyes,

Lay the product of an inchoate vision

Expressing abstract thoughts

Symbolic of the man.

 

Oh, that we could understand

Kinetic brainwaves on the move.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

IN MEDIO TUTISSIMUS IBIS

 IN MEDIO TUTISSIMUS IBIS

(ACROSTIC)

By Peter Woodgate

Lonely shadows shift and merge

Enhancing comfort to our souls,

Grey is white amidst the dreams

And we have reached those distant goals.

Loosen up you hypocrites

Inhibitions thrown away,

Show the world that we mean business,

Eventually we’ll have our say.

 

Can you keep ignoring facts?

Ask yourself “can it get worse?”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained,

Needlessly we face the curse,

All our lives are touched with sorrow

Bearing scars formed by the lie,

In medio tutissimus ibis

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

MOVING ON

 MOVING ON

By Peter Woodgate 

Glad we were

To leave behind

Those dingy rooms,

The peeling paint

And musty smells.

 

The old, cracked mirror

On the wall,

A picture of the king

And another that was made

From cockle shells.

 

The stairs,

That echoed daily,

With the thunder of our feet,

Would fall silent

With perhaps a creak or two.

 

And the mice,

Unwanted company,

Would be free to roam the rooms,

Undisturbed

And admiring the view.

 

Our brand new flat of concrete,

Had everything,

Three bedrooms and a bath

And balconies, with views

Out front and back.

 

Electric lights,

It smelt pristine,

Fresh painted walls,

Nice shiny floors,

Oh, what then did it lack?

 

Alas;

Our spirits lingered

Where bygone friends

Trod one by one,

Apprehension in that promised land

For we were moving on.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 NO ESCAPE 

By Peter Woodgate 

It was dance night at The Gaumont State

I was there, as usual, with my best mate.

We’d been there, many times before,

Sometimes we’d dance, take to the floor

But mostly, we just watched the girls

Their hair piled high but some with curls.

With mini skirt and tight sweater,

Who could ask for anything better.

But, on that night, I saw you there,

All I could do was stand and stare.

You smiled, but there was something more,

as you stood there on the dance floor.

I asked if I could walk you home,

You said “Oh No” I didn’t moan.

You then said “I have come by bus”

I said, “no problem, what’s the fuss?”

So we jumped on the number eight

Then went upstairs to smoke,

We looked into each other’s eyes

But we never spoke.

For we knew, as stops passed by

That we would kiss, both you and I.

I didn’t need a chat-up line

as your eyes looked into mine.

No usual banter, no red tape,

My heart was captured, no escape.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 STOUGHT THOUGHTS

By Peter Woodgate

The pint of Guinness stood upon the table

A creamy head complete with shamrock leaves

And I was looking forward to consuming

That liquid velvet sliding down with ease.

 

When I was halfway through my Irish nectar

I stopped to think, and pondered for a while

Had I enjoyed the half consumed or would the half to come

Be relished more? This strange thought made me smile.

 

But what of life, when do the thoughts

Revert from front to back?

And all those dreams that once we had

Are simply things we lack.

 

This cunning cogitation would not leave me

And made me feel quite sad and somewhat blue

I then picked up the glass and drank the other half

Went to the bar and then drank quite a few.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate