THE LEGEND OF TOM BAWCOCK

MAGIC OF MOUSEHOLE: FISH PIE.

Kows orthiv yn Korniwek,
As Nyns yw unnyeth lowr.......
(Speak to me in Cornish, as one language is never enough.)

My futtocks suffer with Gwidgee gwees
And the doc he's fay Zam zoodled,
You see am are a tad Figgy hobbin
'Arter zackley teyr bras Oggy.
But the futtocks are true Girt licker
And it'll take time to be Ally cumpooster
The Didikoy doth declare,
I walk, it's said like a Chuggy pig
Or even an ancient, Narky Cannikeeper.
That's better it be than a Kewny Bulorn
A Padgypaw and warty Quilkin,
So I'll stagger my buffers to a Kiddlywink
And drink with gnarled Medhow'd duffers.
The Huer calls "Fumado!!!"
The boats scuttle out on the Oggin,
And the little ones are soon
Smiling up from the crust.

STARGAZY

" Merry place you may believe, tiz Mouzel 'pon Tom Bawcock's eve.
To be then who wouldn't wesh, to sup o' Sibm soorts o' fish
When morgy breath had cleared the path
Corned lances for a fry
And then us had a bit o' scad
And Starry- gazie pie
As aich we'd clunk, E's health we drunk
In bumpers bremmen high."

(Anon, from 17th century legend of a local fisherman, Tom Bawcock, who went fishing and brought back a huge haul of pilchards in terrible weather off the Cornish coast near the little village of Mousehole, pronounced Mouzel).

Phil Hall   October 2017
Copyright: Philthepoet61.blogspot.com
Picture: Crapart Phil Hall 2017

TENDER TOUCH

Oh for your tender touch
That silken wisp of pleasure,
The outpouring of life giving treasure
A parting of sweet tasting skin.
Oh the sound of short lived gasp
The adrenaline rush
The savage crimson gush
As sinew parts within.
Oh for the delicious conclusion
The severing of vertebral bone,
The crowds collective moan
Where eternity does begin.
Oh for that last tender touch
As the blade in flashing fall,
The throat fills with spittle and gall
And the head falls in the bin.

Phil Hall November 2017
Copyright: Philthepoet61.blogspot.com

NO SHIT SHERLOCK

Have you had a trip or fall?
Watching TV and you get a cold call,
These arseholes make me
Want to scream or bawl
No shit Sherlock!
The sun can do damage to your eye
Take out insurance for when you die,
Don't forget your passport
Whenever you fly....
No shit Sherlock!
Put on antiseptic for your cuts
Read the small print, no ifs or buts,
This walnut cream gateau
May contain nuts
No shit Sherlock!
Go to the loo, now wash your hands
Make you sit when you're in a stand,
Respect the local customs
When in a foreign land.....
No shit Sherlock!
Pointless signs within easy reach
Yards to the sand, it says "To the beach"
It's said that those who can't do
Try to teach....
No shit Sherlock!
Don't do that and you can't do this
Stupid regulations that take the piss,
Conformity with the norm
I'll give it a miss.
No shit Sherlock!
Health and safety, the nanny state
If I want I'll be a bull at a gate,
Can I for once live my life
And seal my own fate....
Shove it Sherlock.

Phil Hall August 2017
Copyright:Philthepoet61.blogspot.com

RESPECT TO ALL

It's time to show respect to all
These words need to be said,
I'll make tea for the next burgler
Who robs me when I'm in bed.
In fact I'll leave the keys under the mat
So he doesn't get himself hurt,
He might fall out of the window
So I'd dust off all the dirt.
We could let out all the murderers
Paedophiles and the terrorist,
Maybe even let off the car driver
Who kills when he is pissed.
Extend the hand of friendship
To a dictator who butcher's his own folk,
As he stock piles weapons to murder us
We should see it as a joke.
Give thanks and praise to all smokers
Especially during their pregnancy,
To the morbidly obese needing surgery
They've a right, just like you and me.
Let's hear it for the tax dodgers
And the fraudsters not insuring their cars,
To the lazy, talentless unemployable ones
Who just dream of being a star.
Respect to the girls who sleep with anyone
Who may be a film or football star,
Then sell their sordid story in the news
What delightful creatures they all are.
I love all the politicians and civil servants
Who feather their own nest,
Especially the ones who patronize us
I like them ones the best.
I'll hug a suicide bomber
And if he explodes.... who cares?
His obviously unknowing family
Will still get the benefits and welfare.
I'll worship with all the different faiths
And embrace their unique traits,
beheadings and genital mutilation
I'm sure I can relate.
From the priests with disturbing tendencies
To those who perform unnatural acts,
It's not worth the hassle complaining
Due to massaging of the facts.
So, I'll look around in contemplation
With the madness being unfurled,
Keep shtum when crap disturbs me
As we have to conform to a PC world.

Phil Hall September 2017
Copyright: Philthepoet61.blogspot.com
Picture: Phil Hall (Respect) Crapart 2017

TINPOT

Tinpot dictators and such nutjobs
They pop up occasionally,
Only to briefly cause a nuisance
Before being squashed finally.
Like the archetypal Bond villain
All boiler suit and oddly cut hair,
We've Kim Jung Un and his warheads
Firing them with a devil may care.
Maybe this tinpot is angry
As the West don't take him seriously,
Because his first name is a bit girly
And his chubby face resembles a piggy.
Most likely he's got a very small penis
And his first girlfriend had told him so,
But, to now threaten the world's a bit much
Just because he's got not much below.
His henchmen in their starched uniforms
All laugh nervously at his terrible jokes,
Though the rest of the world isn't laughing
As the fires of war he stokes.
He's full of rhetoric and bombast
His propaganda we've all heard before,
Many a tyrant has spouted such crap
Before being shown life's exit door.
To become an infamous, despotic tinpot
Be a bit more villainous and have style,
Because at the moment you just look like a bit of a twat
And your teenage petulance sticks out a mile.
So Kim, please go and tidy your room
Also finish your mathematics homework,
Stop annoying your betters with tantrums
And behaving like a childish berk.

Phil Hall
September 2017
Copyright:Philthepoet61.blogspot.com
Drawing: Phil Hall (Tinpot) Crap art 2017.

I TAKE MY LEAVE OF YOU

Well, I suppose that's that
Left high and dry,
Thoughts of love and togetherness
All just pie in the sky.
Am I surprised?
Good Lord... am I hell?
Though I'm left with a nausea
A feeling of unwell.
Bewildered and batterered
Emotional and dazed,
A psychological malaise
Eyes reddened and glazed.
The last fading look
An executioners mask,
A vitriolic draught of bitterness
From a once sweet, vibrant cask.
As the axe fell, a light died
A final misted breath exhaled,
The knife was retrieved, resheathed
From the heart it had impaled.

But, then came a light
Like the walk to heavens gate,
To others of a broken heart
I'm sure they could relate.
The feeling of loss and emptiness
Now replaced by freshened air,
True friends of the heart do rally
When your soul is laid bare.
The mind can set to work again
Rebuilding the broken road,
A new bridleway to happiness
New seeds to be sowed.
That life now a distant memory
Consigned to a mildewed album,
Those dreams and aspirations
Just an unanswerable sum.
So this goodbye is final
That chapter will be erased too,
No looking back with fondness anymore
I take my leave of you.

Phil Hall August 2017
Copyright: philthepoet61.blogspot.com

DELUDED

The smile
Eyes half pleading,
And half needing
With lips glossed and pouting
There's no doubting.....
It's attention and adulation
You seek.

The men
Moths to a flame,
They call your name
Their lust all the same
Just part of your game......
Like cheap perfume
It reeks.

The reason
Who the hell knows?
A fraud from head to toes
But , that's how it goes
The airbrushing glows.....
I've touched and tasted
It's truth I speak.

And finally
In my conclusion,
Nothing but delusion
Mind in confusion
I loved an illusion.....
Knife thrust and gunshot
Yes baby
I've got a bloody cheek.

Phil Hall July 2017

Copyright:philthepoet61.blogspot.com

RETURN TO WARLEGGAN

On my overdue return to Warleggan
It was nothing like before,
As I walked alone, deep in thought
Through that creaking, iron studded door.
The brooding church enveloped me
In its musty, dusty gloom,
I crossed to the leathern visitors book
In the cold and dark ecclesiastical tomb.
Our names still there, excitedly etched
Over many turned, mellowed page,
Like Tristan and Isolde of legend
We were the doomed of the new age.
It'd been here, in this haunted church
Deep in Cornwall's portentous moor,
When one was we, in a lovers mist
Serenaded by the hooded jackdaw.
She'd stood just there at rusty gate
Shivering with cold and fear,
Amongst lichened grave and gravel path
Seeing her still, my eye holds off a tear.
I once again peered up the broken tower
Where the reverend breathed his last,
Then heard the cry of a love I'd had
Her beautiful eyes twinkle from the past.
I'd wandered among the dead
Where escalibur lay in Dozmary pool,
Tasted the pasties in Jamaica Inn
Reminiscing like a lovelorn fool.
Today, I will scale Camelot
And stare wistfully into the recent past
Remembering my own Queen Guinevere,
And the love that couldn't last.
My return to the church at Warleggan
Was how it was meant to be
It was once the life ahead of us
But, now it's just all about me.

Phil Hall.  June 2017

Copyright: Philthepoet61.blogspot.com

FREEDOM

I've not tasted freedom
For a few years past,
Sobriety and abstaining
I was tied to the mast.
I've lived in false hope
For a love out of reach,
The knife when it struck
A blow that would teach.
Trust minus the T
Of a heart turned to rust,
With love on sodden paper
Stamped into the dust.
All the lies, the deceit
Packaged in a snakes eye,
Then a wave of the finger
Hope sentenced to die.

Freedom appeared
On that portentous day,
Her words were parried, countered
Shackles loosened, she just flew away.
Standing there, as her words
Dripping with devil may care,
My eyes transmitted to the brain
A life laid bare.
A battle lost, flag tattered and bloody
Martin Luther, his words suddenly cast,
I smile alone, I've now won the war
"I'm free at last.... Free at last"
Fate is inexorable
I'd lost a penny, but found a pound,
This Englishman and his new love Mercedes
Will live again, just cruising around.
Freedom!!!

Phil Hall
Copyright: philthepoet@ blogspot.com

June 2017

A WARRIOR NO MORE

If a shield be lowered in battle
When anger and terror reigns,
A man must surely fall.
Behold, the sword lies upon the ground
Alone and afraid,
Death is all that awaits
Shadows in the shield wall.
A warrior no more.

Once, they talked of love and life
As they loved and lived
Holding hands upon the shore.
She of silken skin and raven tresses
And a butterflies innocence,
His heart was stolen by a goddess
A warrior no more.

Now with armour dulled
Blunted blade and scars burnt deep,
Tears flow from the core.
A sword stroke ended his life
On a day of portentous sky,
"Zethera Musa..... I love you'
He is a warrior no more.
A warrior no more.
No more.

Phil Hall. . April 2017

Copyright © philthepoet@blogspot.com

LIFE AND DEATH

I'm not scared of dying
Far from it,
As I'm more frightened of life,
It tests one's mettle
Like kissing a nettle
Or scratching your eye
With a knife.
Life can be a ball ache
A never ending fight,
Only reaching some finality
After years of drudgery
Toiling and banality
Death suddenly
Extinguishes the light.

Once lay in the ground
Or scattered in the breeze,
My space taken by another.
They'll breathe my spent air
Maybe sit on my old chair,
Though we didn't share
The same mother.
A conveyor of flesh
That grows, ages and rots
Like fruit from a gargantuan tree.
Every life and death
Exhales a last breath,
And so, do we go anywhere after?
Well, let's see.

Phil Hall October 2017
Copyright:Philthepoet61.blogspot.com
Picture: Crapart by Phil Hall 2017