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

14^th April 2017

Copyright ©2017

              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

9^th 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

9^th November 2016

Copyright ©2016 

River Dee

               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

4^th October 2016

 

Copyright ©2016 

Lanner falcon

                 Judas

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

18^th March 2016

Copyright ©2016 

Lunch on the Thames

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

16^th October 2007

River Yare

Tengo

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
15^th December 2010

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
2^nd January 2013

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!

Hark!

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

12^th 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

26^th October 2011

Marrakech

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

24^th November 2011