ODE TO DAWN (Bransholme '76)

You may recall an earlier poem, A DAY AT SCHOOL (Bransholme '76), discovered in the trunk I've been dumping stuff since finishing my state education at Bransholme High that transitioned me into adulthood.

I wrote a lot of stuff then, for my own pleasure and the challenge of writing odes and poems "to order"; one of which I present now. If you happen to be the original recipient of "your order" and wish me to remove it, please drop me a line.

ODE TO DAWN (Bransholme '76)

In the sixth form Dawn's a must.

Is she a girl or a woman of lust?

Who cares, as long as she's there.

This woman of beauty, so fine and so fair.

Dawn has a hobby, have you heard?

Well I never, it's most absurd.

She I suppose could be called a glutton,

but all she's after is a fair sized button.

The trouble arises when it's your turn,

you submit to Dawn, you begin to burn.

With passion in her hands she rips at your shirt;

mission completed and you're in the dirt.

Dawn loons off, buttons and all,

she thinks it's lovely, a zany ball.

"With a hobby like that she'll be on parole",

but don't worry chaps, she'll be back to console.

With Dawn around just watch your shirt,

your P's and Q's; she's not just "skirt"!

Dawn's a ruthless but modest girl,

to us the sixth form; a mother of pearl.

The surname of Dawn eludes me now (50 years later Bellfield or French rings a bell, but not sure) and compared to earlier odes this ode is a bit twee and clunky, maybe because I was doing so many; the girls wanted a memento of our last year at school. Happy days!

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ODE TO TWO PESTS (Bransholme '76)

You may recall an earlier poem, A DAY AT SCHOOL (Bransholme '76), discovered in the trunk I've been dumping stuff since finishing my state education at Bransholme High (and this) (and this) transitioned me into adulthood.

I wrote a lot of stuff then, for my own pleasure and the challenge of writing odes and poems "to order"; one of which I present now. If you happen to be the original recipient of "your order" and wish me to remove it, please drop me a line.

ODE TO TWO PESTS (Bransholme '76)

I know two girls who have a thing about odes,

they want me to write some - loads and loads.

This for them though is a time to think,

as to where I get money for all this ink.

My God you fools - you thought it came free,

wait 'till you see me by the Christmas tree.

I'll be there - so all beware,

With my begging bowl and innocent stare.

Now listen here you girls of stature,

what ya try'na be - official ode catcher?

I can't stand here ranting all day,

for one thing I'm knackered and I don't get paid.

So with this verse it's time to go.

I'm leaving you now - time to blow.

Before I go though I've to name a name,

I'm being worked to death by Carolyn Graham.

Not forgetting of course one certain sidekick,

Who contrary to belief is not at all "trick".

I'll have to end now, I'm tired and numb,

t'is all the work of Alison Lumb.

I remember these two as being musical, beyond my intellect and really good Backgammon players. Happy days!

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ODE TO SUZANNE (Bransholme '76)

You may recall an earlier poem, A DAY AT SCHOOL (Bransholme '76), discovered in the trunk I've been dumping stuff since finishing my state education at Bransholme High (and this) (and this) transitioned me into adulthood.

I wrote a lot of stuff then, for my own pleasure and the challenge of writing odes and poems "to order"; one of which I present now. If you happen to be the original recipient of "your order" and wish me to remove it, please drop me a line.

ODE TO SUZANNE (Bransholme '76)

Suzanne is a bit of a chore

or so some people say,

but let them say that to me I say

and they wont see the light of day.

She may be silly

ruthless and mad,

but after all, 

that's not that bad?

She's honest and open,

that's all you need,

who says she's crazy?

Madness indeed.

Our Su's not mad

and not at all bad,

quite delectable

in her own kind of way.

"We love you Su" .......

If Suzanne left we'd have nothing to do,

no-one to strangle - "your shoe's in the loo!"

We'd be so bored, have a life so dull,

but give us Suzanne and the place packs full.

With this tale told I want your thanks.

So a round of applause for fantastic Su,

Our loving eccentric,

who's NEVER a chore.

The maw I think of this girl now, I realise she was the big light in the room. She made everyone happy. Happy days!

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ODE TO ELAINE (Bransholme '76)

You may recall an earlier poem, A DAY AT SCHOOL (Bransholme '76), discovered in the trunk I've been dumping stuff since finishing my state education at Bransholme High (and this) (and this), transitioning me into adulthood.

I wrote a lot of stuff then, for my own pleasure and the challenge of writing odes and poems "to order"; one of which I present now. If you happen to be the original recipient of "your order" and wish me to remove it, please drop me a line.

ODE TO ELAINE (Bransholme '76)

I know Elaine and she has one craving, 

no, it's not for boys or crazy paving. 

This is a craving that has no limits,

for all are open to its lofty limits. 

None are safe, no-one's spared.

It's just Elaine's fetish, have you heard? 

  

With deadly accuracy and over in a tick,

it's just her craving, is she thick?

No I say, she is not thick, 

slightly silly but fast and slick. 

So, all you boys out there beware. 

Elaine has a fetish and it'll curl your hair. 

    

Never mind your shirt, your body or your soul, 

none of these are her ultimate goal. 

Elaine's fetish is most discreet. 

Wrong sir, not your feet. 

Try once more to guess this thing. 

What? No, it's not for string.  

 

Pardon sir, what was that you said? 

"Stripping church roofs"? 

No, it's not for lead.

No-one know this fetish 'cept I, 

Her fetish is in me like a plum in a pie. 

But save embarrassment I cannot lie.  

 

Elaine has no fetish and I am no pie. 

Elaine is grand, popular and witty, 

but mark my words and this no lie, 

don't get close or she'll have your tie.

I hartley dare mention it, but Elaine was the recipient of quite a few "on demand" odes. In this blog you will find one here and here. Happy days!

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ODE TO COLLEEN (Bransholme '76)

You may recall an earlier poem, A DAY AT SCHOOL (Bransholme '76), discovered in the trunk I've been dumping stuff since finishing my state education at Bransholme High (and this) (and this) transitioned me into adulthood

I wrote a lot of stuff then, for my own pleasure and the challenge of writing odes and poems "to order"; one of which I present now. If you happen to be the original recipient of "your order" and wish me to remove it, please drop me a line.

ODE TO COLLEEN (Bransholme '76)

I am the poet, I know Colleen,

but she does things that just have to be seen.

Riding down Tweendykes on her mean machine,

pedalling like fury, a flying queen.

With legs like pistons and coat flapping wide,

she's away like the wind, as strong as the tide.

Colleen's passion of day or night

is to ride up Tweendykes on the right,

but her ultimate goal, conceived without fuss,

is to run herself up a 34 bus!

Colleen is a goer I must declare,

but not in public, I wouldn't dare.

Colleen is a woman,

who's polite and serene.

One to be titled, Bransholme Queen.

Yes, this is a friend who is so rare,

who will not be abused.

Of one to take care.

In a ledger of odes, this one was well received at the time. Happy days!

Want another Bransholme ode?

Here is that 34 bus

A DAY AT SCHOOL (Bransholme '76)

If you've been around this blog a bit, you'll know it's a Gallimaufry, with no obvious agenda. Over the years it has reflected what was in my head that day, or the emotion of a moment, with the odd bit of humour and music.

Today I feel tired and nostalgic (so that's it! - I MUST be old - OMG!).

Anyway, let's not dwell on that, for I was rummaging through my mental trunk and then looked up old books I've kept since school days, particularly those in which I wrote "poetry", prose, odes or absolute crap. 

Bransholme High (and this) (and this) (and this) transitioned me into adulthood, wiser in thought and raring to go, but it also gave me happy times, some of the best being in my last year there ('76), when I started to write "stuff", occasionally as demanded by others. Let me explain.

I loved the girls and they liked me, principally because I never tried to "hit on them" (much) because my sisters had removed fear and taught me that chat was the way to a woman's attention. I liked this and a fringe benefit was guys would follow my lead, to pick-up tips or girls. 

I wrote quite a few odes to flatter or record school life then, so today I'd like to introduce you to a world of mediocrity; to an ode about a day at school. It's a bit clunky and best read quite quickly, in a "flipperty-flop" way. Good luck.

A DAY AT SCHOOL (Bransholme '76)

Caught the bus to school today.

Nodded to Carolyn and went on my way.

Climbed the stairs and found a seat.

God it's good to rest your feet.

Arrived at school five to nine. 

Greeted friends with the usual line.

Dumped me books, checked me looks and found a seat.

God it's good to rest your feet.

Said hi to Liz, Colleen and Dawn.

But coming exams made me moan.

I had the jitters but in came Pete.

A good name that: it rhymes with feet!

Assembly finished and I'm working fast.

I'm no good at math but I won't come last.

An ego-tripper, that's what I am.

But I haven't a rhyme, so I'm gonna use Spam.

The test was murderous, I cannot regale.

Didn't have any breakfast, thought I'd failed.

Talking of breakfast I fancied some ham.

Well, I didn't really, but it brings back Spam!

Now at this juncture I must explain,

Why I always drift back to say things again.

At poetry you see I'm a bit of a ham,

sorry folks, I'm back to Spam.

Words you see come hard to me,

I force them out, they don't come free,

thus the reason for Pete and feet;

they fill out a piece and they rhyme real neat!

But enough of excuses and onwards I say,

I'm gonna write more as there's more to say.

I walked into the sixth-form, five to eleven.

Following maths, an annex of heaven.

Saw Erica, Elaine, Julie and Pete.

Bezzy mates and glad to greet.

The break passed all too quick.

I thought of the test, convinced I was thick.

I saw Russ Atkinson: time for tech-drawing.

Didn't wanna go and it was all very boring.

Back in the sixth-form around twelve-fifty.

All tests over and I felt quite nifty.

Time to relax and fall into a chair.

It was good to be alive, just loafing there.

Sitting alone, I watched Suzzane Maw.

Ten seconds flat, apple to core.

Five seconds later in stepped Dawn.

On went the radio; why was I born?

Soundwaves permeated the room,

and beat on my brain like the back of a broom.

God it was noisy, I had to get out,

and Fisher was wailing as if he had gout.

I made up my mind, I'd have to go.

Then I thought, "dammit, why should I blow?"

So instead of going I turned it down.

Now, Fisher didn't like that and gave me a frown.

A quarter past one and the place is packed.

In comes Jebson and Pete gets hacked.

Asking Pete what he had to say,

his only reply was, "he wants me to stay".

Half past one and I'm talking to Wendy.

Now there was one who could really send me.

A quarter to two and I hear something grave.

Grovelling gravestone: "Pywell's begun to shave!".

Dinnertime passes, all too quick.

I still think of maths convinced that I'm thick.

What comes next is bad-boy Bratton.

A teacher who thinks he's general Patton.

In class we wait 'till four o'clock comes.

Looking intelligent, but twiddling our thumbs.

At last it comes and it's time to go.

Split the scene man, time to blow.

With Erica and Pete, there's pace without fuss.

We have to rush to catch our bus.

But Carol arrives, coat, bags and basket.

And shuffles around like she's blown a gasket.

The day draws in and the end is near.

I grab my books and pile on my gear.

Say goodbye to Elaine, Colleen and Dawn.

And life feels good.

I'm glad to be born.

There, I told you it was clunky, as were many more of its period / ilk, but some of which I might add in the future as they come to light, starting here.

ONE FOR THE SOFT-CORE QUEEN

Not the bed of a (now) famous music teacher in Cramlington

From its inception in 1976, ever more racy iterations led to this poem, as a private email friendship became less guarded over years. 

 

I started this letter whilst sat on the loo,

and the ring on me bum's dedicated to you.

Roses are red, violets are blue,

writing's exciting when sat on the loo;

and now as I sit I'm thinking of you

(more fun to be had with two in the loo!),

so now that it's said - if you know what I mean,

come 'round to my place - I'm still nice and clean.

Oh little Hartlet you know I'm a fan?

Come 'round to Slag-babes and make me a man.

For I'm sitting in bed

and rubbing my head

I can't think of another to woo.

I'm trying and trying

gasping - near dying

but I just can't stop thinking of you.

You asked for an ode - but soft-core porn?

well here it comes - pubes must be shorn.

The second on the list of things to be had

is a big red bed and that you have,

pillows galore to firm those hips

with their hole from home to warm my pips.

And that's about it - all I require,

You bring a bottle - I'll be your sire.

So when can I come - to see you I mean,

for you're now rechristened,

the soft-core queen.

Personal Comment: Having the poem, this song came to my mind, thought it is not in my personal list of meaningful songs.

HUMOUROUS HUMOUR ELAINE LAURENCEAUX England LAUR