Wednesday, May 17, 2017

           Detox Socks

Never fear heavy metals or the pox
Just go out and buy some detox socks.
Don’t think of the negatives or the flaws
Just let those toxins flow out your pores.
You just relax and sit right back
Then watch in awe, as your feet turn black.

Take them home with pride, still in the box
Then lift the lid and admire your detox socks.
Take out your teeth, put them in the jar
And light up that great big Havana cigar.
Give your kidneys and liver a rest
Help your immune system, give it some zest.

Never fear heavy metals or the pox
Just go out and buy some detox socks.
After debauchery, toxins escape through each sole
As you watch each foot turn as black as coal.
You know you were as cunning as a fox
When you went and bought those detox socks.

Never a care over bouts of heavy drinking
Don’t lose time over worry or thinking.
So drink away, eat crisps and chocs
But don’t forget those detox socks.
You just relax and sit right back
Then watch in awe, as your feet turn black.

 Martin Delemare

14th April 2017
Copyright ©2017

Friday, November 25, 2016

              The Seven Deadly Sins – II
                    Gourmet Gordon

Public house all yeasty and evening warm
Local steps in, dripping rain from the storm,
Questing for Gordon that inclement day.
Out at “The Waltzing Weasel” the patrons did say
Consuming fine foods and wines with the Gourmet Club.
Better than eating burger and chips in the pub.

A grand institution of twelve men good and true
A lofty bracket above the likes of me and you.

A five course meal in restaurant in vogue
Once a month guest, upper crusst, no rogue
They’d puff on cigars, that made them look wise.
They told tall stories but never told lies.
Gordon would drink brandy from glasses so thin
And flirt with the waitresses with waists very slim.

Tasting langoustines and crab with Piri-piri sauce,
Cassoulet, duck confit and venison of course.
Tureen of turtle soup, timbali of rice, a red wine jus
Panna cotta, almond praline; dishes for them not for you.

After-hours jubilant return in taxis loud
Stroll into the pub all bloated and proud.
Order malt whiskies to be drunk by all
Laughter rings out in snug, stairs and hall.

A grand institution of twelve men good and true
A lofty bracket above the likes of me and you.

One evening after a banquet in “The Copper Kettle”
Gordon full of food slumped in sofa to settle
To a wee dram of his finest Cardhu
And perhaps a drop of Johnnie Walker Blue.

But his intention was frustrated and diverted
A sudden chest pain and to danger he was alerted.
Gordon realised that his drink was not to be
As he clutched his chest, his ribs, in agony.
He had no drugs, of pills not a one
In the grip of a massive fizzer; he was done.

His day was over, his life was led.
His friends were told that he was dead.

A grand institution of eleven men good and true
Who ate and drank so much more than me or you.

Martin Delemare

9th November 2016

Copyright ©2016 

      The Seven Deadly Sins – I

        The Perfect Marriage

Long drive through pedicured lawns,
Neatly trimmed trees and shrubs.
Her house a perfect period piece,
Mullioned windows, herring-bone chimneys.
Mercedes crunched on raked gravel.
Husband smiling beside the glass door
Her suit was immaculate
Her smile forever affable.
Cartier necklace professed her wealth
Smiles of spouse and silent children
Confirmed her happily married state.

Text messages and mobile calls
Linked her to her female friends,
Toning muscles in the local gym,
Afternoon tea, sushi in the riverside bar,
Risqué plays and Tai Chi in the park.
Nanny took care of the children
Andrew took care of their money.

Some calls were not quite as they’d seem
Not all were from Fiona, Celia or Nadeem.
Some calls rang with a deeper voice.
Then Adia would cheerfully wave good bye
To keep a clandestine tryst with Horace.

Like a tiny atom in a megaton bomb
Her scented note rested on the mantlepiece.
She had long gone, bags all prepacked
When Amdrew read the note; world destroyed.

Adia sat back in Horace’s private jet
Eating beluga caviar and sipping Krug
On final approach to the Caribbean runway
And his luxury beach retreat in Tobago.
Yes, her youth and stunning good  looks
And Horace’s billions; a perfect marriage.

Martin Delemare

9th November 2016
Copyright ©2016 

River Dee

Thursday, November 10, 2016

               The Ferryman
Cormorant flew low over the brackish water.
Fergal Moon’s eyes pierced the far bank,
Coat collar raised against the bitter wind
Blowing upriver from the wild saltmarsh.
Current lazily spun old spiles and spars
With decaying detritus from the winter spate.
Fergal skilfully sculled his wooden craft,
Avoiding shifting, shallow sand bars.
Bent his back to the heavy oar
To reach the jetty on the mud-lined shore.
They shuffled along the slimy plank
With chickens, goat and frying pan,
Each with coin to pay the ferryman.
In boat moored tight he idly sat
Watching coins tossed into his hat.
Kingfisher’s electric flash of blue
Against dawn’s clouded orange hue.
Wave rocked from the stormy blow
Bow pushed out into the river’s flow,
Heading for huts and homes on the opposite shore.
A lever of hand-polished oak wood
Proud of the sturdy gunwale stood.
Fergal fingered the coins in pocket safe
Stared at this lever of polished oak.
A stretch – to grip and yank
Heave ho! And in you go!
Seven souls irretrievably sank
Into waters dark and chill, such woe!
Seven souls lost to the surge and the undertow.
In his pocket he clinked his coins
Plotted his course out past the wooden groynes.
Fergal’s grin showed a toothless gap
For he was proud of his cunning trap.
You may come with chickens, goat and frying pan
But never, never ever pay that ferryman.
Martin Delemare

4th October 2016
Copyright ©2016 

Tuesday, November 08, 2016

Lanner falcon


Not for me the wine or tasty cuppa
No, not for me at that last supper.

I am not a ball on the simnal cake
For I, I made a big mistake.

Oh Lord, Saviour of all
I wander alone, big downfall.
I am the traitor clear
But no forgiveness, not here.

Blessed is he that commeth
In the name of the Lord.
Cursed is me that goeth
An outcast from the heavenly hoard.

Martin Delemare

18th March 2016

Copyright ©2016 

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Lunch on the Thames

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Sump Two

Already soaked to the skin
Arrived via crawl and creep
To the dark water glooping
Where water and rock meet
On ammo box down you sit
Prepare for dive, sort out kit.

Neoprene hood on head
Weight belt made of lead
Spit in face mask; squeaky clean
Deep breath, grab rope so lean.
Wade out, cold water seeps in
Pull rope taut, ready to begin.

Submerge beneath the rock
Focus on white line
In the water green
Flakes of rock hang down
Hand over hand in green gloom

Helmet bumps on rock
Line white, slack, stop
Keep one hand on the rope
Pull taut and again
Move through the green
Tunnel, specks hanging
Like dust in warm ray
Yet this is cold
Head emerges, water drains
From helmet - top of mask
Air - Light shines on
Walls -
Bottom of mask
Still water - Pull
On rope to end of pool
Hold bolt fixed to wall.
Success is an air bell.

Martin Delemare
16th October 2007

River Yare

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I have dived on the broken wreck of the Volnay
    Mindful of the explosive still in the shells
I have explored dark sumps under the Mendip Hills
    Holding my breath and the rope equally tight
I have eaten succulent crawfish and scallops
    Taken fresh from the Cornish sea
I have walked on crunchy Scottish sastrugi
    Feeling on top of the world
I have paddled down the rocky Ardeche
    In the midday sun and sudden thunderstorms
I have been becalmed off the Isle of Man
    Hearing coasters rumble into the night
I have ridden my motorbike with the Hastings boys
    Roaring down the Seven Mile Lane
I have searched for mushrooms out on the marsh
    Listening to pewits call overhead
I have eaten paella on the Spanish border
    And supped Rioja warm from the glass
I have jumped from the wing of a tiny plane
    And felt the lines run out of the pack
I have banged a gong on the Chinese hill
    On New Year’s Day in Suzhou
I have loved in the heat of a summer night
    And thought that she was the only one
I have drunk anis dulce in Matienzo bars
    With bottle tops embedded in mud floors
I have fought till the blood ran from my nose
    And wished I had not been so rash
I have landed big pike from the River Rother
    Careful of their long, vicious teeth
I have laughed with my family sat round the table
    Sharing the Christmas fare
I have toiled till my back ached and fingers bled
    Picking potatoes in the sun-baked field
I have caught flapping chicken in the smelly shed
    Sweating in the summer heat
I have sat in the snow with numbing brain
    On the remote Yorkshire moor
I have abseiled down shafts in Derbyshire mines
    Thankful that the rope was strong
I have climbed the cliffs of the Avon Gorge
    And dropped my heels to stop the shake
I have rejoiced at the birth of daughters three
    Listened to the owl’s hoot in the morning
I have fished for mackerel on Dungeness beach
    Watching super tankers glide up the Channel
I have eaten cherries in the Kentish Weald
    Swilling home brewed wine from bottle
I have smoked Ducados on the limestone hill
    And watched the smoke drift away on the breeze
I have kayaked in waves off Flamborough Head
    Battling clapotis and foam under the cliffs
I have lit fires on the Irish shore
    And drunk Guinness cool from the gun
I have marvelled at sparkling stal bosses
    And delicate straws in Belgium caves
I have been benighted on Heather Terrace
    Shivering in that icy Tryfan gully
I have watched barges on the River Rhine
    Carry their cargoes under Cologne’s bridges
I have eaten kebabs from the Yugoslavian spit
    Watching oxen carts work the fields
I have slept in a Swiss barn during the autumn
    Woken by cow bells tinkling in the morning
I have played chess on the boat to Crete
    Surrounded by travellers, chickens and goats
I have tasted pizza in the restaurants of Venice
    And taken the boat out to Murano and Burano
I have mourned the deaths of both family and friends
    Spoken last farewells and saddened words
I have lived as well as any king or emperor
    Who ate wild boar at the royal feast.

Martin Delemare
15th December 2010

Wednesday, January 02, 2013

Fiscal Cliff

Await that dreaded hour in fear
That hour of twelve long bells
Each in your own private hells

At midnight cometh the long drop
Millions to vanish, all in a jiff
The dark hour of Fiscal Cliff

He does not stalk all alone
But struts boldly down the street
Beside that villain Pecuniary Pete

He laughs at our futile abacus
At our whimper, tear and sniff
That swarthy spiv, deadly Fiscal Cliff

Martin Delemare
2nd January 2013

Friday, August 17, 2012

On the beach

                  Clinker Built

Hugged the chilly shingle shore lapping
Through the dense, morning fog chugging
Passing groynes, poles, posts and more
Particles cold to the beard clinging
To the bowler and balaclava we wore.
Rotting clinker built boat, Seagull engine puttering
Dirty fuel and feeble spark, Seagull engine spluttering
Split gunwales, rusty rowlocks, diving bags,
Pungent petrol vapour and greasy, oily rags
And boards sun-bleached soapy light
A frail craft heading for the Isle of Wight.
Stopped beside the stone sentinel round
Marvelled at this relic of Napoleonic times,
Listening for the modern dangers that abound
Nostrils flared, ears keen, eyes peeled.
No wave slap, no seabird squawk, not a sound.

A hoot!
Distant warning.

Thick fog obscured view, a thick curtain
Held us in our own damp wraparound
Suppressed little marine world, certain
We were not safe; oh so vulnerable
From the Argonaut, juggernaut, tankernaut
Cyclops blundering along busy sea lanes distraught.
A vast grey tonnage above us loomed
Towering high, like a telephoto zoomed.
Dragged aside, made ragged our foggy veil, flimsy
Bulbous nose thrusting through the dim sea
Ghosting a furrow through the Solent.
Engine started, we turned from the bow wave
Only to turn again, our little boat to save.
Waited in that tanker’s wake.
Out to Bembridge Ledge we started to head
A section of the journey that held our dread.

Martin Delemare
12th October 2011

The Old Lady from Bodiam

There was an old lady from Bodiam
Who wheeled a sheep around in a pram.
When she tired of this ewe
It went in a stew
So now she’ll be buying a lamb.

Martin Delemare
26th October 2011


100 Watt

What no bulbs of a 100 watt?
What no bulbs bright and hot?
This supermarket is no good to me
I want instant light, don’t you see?
No, I don’t want curls.
No, I don’t want swirls.
I want bulbs of a 100 watt
I want bulbs bright and hot.
Not low energy slow murk
Stumbling about like a burk.
I want bulbs of a 100 watt.

I’ll go round to the corner shop
They buy bulbs, not this rot.
No low energy bulbs with mercury
They buy their bulbs from far Turkey.
They buy bulbs by the job lot
They buy bulbs bright and hot.

This supermarket is no good to me.
What no bulbs of a 100 watt?
I want instant light don’t you see.
I want bulbs bright and hot
I want bulbs of a 100 watt.
Martin Delemare
24th November 2011