Author: Michael

Husband, dad,(ex)programmer, comic collector and proud Yorkshireman. I have no idea why im here or why im writing but i rather enjoy it. no great fan of punctuation;

My First Book

Seems I wrote one…

I have written before about why I started my blog.  For those who missed it one of the main reasons was due to a friend who’s wife, an aspiring writer and a vile human being, insisting that anyone that self publishes does so as an act of vanity which is probably why she had never been published and for the most part refused to work.  Writers retreats she enjoyed a plenty I believe.

Anyway, perhaps I ended up proving her point, but I suggested to my friend that I would from that day forth take up writing and publish a book before she did just to prove the point that surely it isn’t that hard and perhaps if she wasn’t such a horrible cow she might have achieved more.

Anyway, the result of that rant can now be found on Amazon in the form of my first book ‘A Collection of Inappropriate Limericks.  Its only 300 or so of my limericks but it’s something I guess.  Something I made that perhaps my grandkids will hold one day and ask “What the fuck was wrong with Grandad?”

Paperback out now with the E-book to follow on the twelfth mostly because I made a mistake setting it up and couldn’t work out how to remedy it.’

Oh and I dedicated it to her too.  Seemed only right.

Paperback in the UK is here

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1916089011

And in the US here

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1916089011

–

UK E-Book can be preordered here for delivery on the 12th of April.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07QF58TYM

 

The US E-Book is here

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07QF58TYM

 

Who’d have thought it eh…

Then

Wordy wordy lordy lordy

Regrets I’ve bundled, wrapped in hope

and set aflame to warm myself

at night as fire side burns so bright

with what and if and maybe so.

 

Instead I choose a path of is

and simply tis just how it goes

and from my tongue hyperbole

flows as the streams of passing time.

 

And cinders drift into the sky

as light illuminates my face

deep lined with things I now forget

and carefree watch them pass me by.

 

 

Yesterday

Wordy wordy

This England I now roam of green

which for another time holds dear

would at the hearth of days long gone

stand, warm itself hid from the storm.

 

Crisp cricket whites hung on the line

and tea enjoyed at summer fair,

and fingers black from Sunday papers

beckon sunset shine on her once more.

 

Dreams sweet as jam from berries tart

of who she was and could have been

from mirror turns at sight most foul

and searches for the good old days.

 

Forgetting

Wordy wordy

Bitter, time can oft erode

those things that once were sweet and true

and brackish floods filled with disdain

deposits leave, debris piled high,

obscurring paths once so well trod.

 

And lost I wander searching still

for distant lights of home and hearth

whilst stars turn black as tempest stirs

and to an end I slowly snake

and there forget your name.

 

 

Someone else’s forever

Fancy one of these?

Mouth dry, full of regrets and lies

and fading dreams of what we had

they fill my mind when eyes I close

and raging ‘gainst the lovers sunset

I thrash between these sullied sheets.

 

There in the distance, silhouette,

you walk where once we lingered long

into the night and then slip softly

hand in hand

into someone else’s forever.

 

 

 

Sunday

I’ve had flu all week so not written anything and this is the best I can muster.

Backs packed and gloom descending

as the weekend nears it’s ending

‘Monday blues’ on twitter trending

and I curse that I have not yet won the lottery.

 

For Monday, it sucks balls you see

the thought of it quite bothers me

I’ve felt this way since after tea

and I curse that I have never played the lottery.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another Tttttuesday limerick.

Cavernous!

“Check your prostate” my friend’s wife insisted

so he went pants, dropped face red and twisted

he enjoyed it so much

and went home and begged such

that each night he’s oiled up, roughly fisted

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Never alone

More Sunday word vomit

One final sleep

‘neath blankets cold

of eath and clay and stone.

 

And to my end I walk at last

no evermore, or well lived past

and to the darkness wide and vast

I enter all alone.

 

And you shall be my final thought

my life, my hopes, my joy

remember me, the things I wrought,

my kind and loving boy.