The Night Belongs To Cats

Most revellers have long since fled,
And I, alone, am out of bed,
Walking the streets so still and dead,
The night belongs to cats.

See lordly Toms on high survey,
Nocturnal realms where they hold sway,
While others go in search of prey,
The night belongs to cats.

As mournful yowls fragment the night,
And deep in shadow, eyes shine bright,
I wander where I have no right,
This night belongs to cats.

© Graeme Williams 2012



The ACEO is a picture painted by my wife, Chris, specifically for this poem. If you want to check out more of her work you can find it under her facebook page at  Artistic Originals.

Short Bible Stories

My Poems presented using Jonathan Feinberg's Wordle App

A while back I entered LightenUp Online's competition for September (competition 18) which was to rewrite a story from the Old or the New Testament in no more than four lines. Unfortunately, entry was limited to just two attempts per person and neither of my two offerings made it into the September issue. Nevertheless, I thought I'd post them here anyway.   


Sarah Laughed
When Sarah heard the news she laughed,
She thought the angels’ talk was daft,
To be the mother of a son,
When she’s collecting her pension?

Genesis 18:10

Death of Jezebel
Jezebel, all limbs akimbo,
Got chucked out a first floor window.
Won herself a reputation,
Of dying by defenestration.

2 Kings 9:30-33

Kosher
If you read Deuteronomy,
As a guide to gastronomy,
Then thou shalt not eat,
Milk mixed with meat.

Deuteronomy 14:21

David and Goliath
Goliath won immortal fame
All Israel trembled at his name,
But all that fame went to his head,
When David killed him stone cold dead.

1 Samuel 17

Bathsheba and David
When Bathsheba, Elim’s daughter,
Had a bath, King David saw her,
And he took her for his lover,
Now it’s him who’s in hot water.

2 Samuel 11

Friday Night

It’s Friday night, just gone midnight
And kicking-out time in the town.
As I sit watching from my car,
Deserted pavements teem with life,
And people fill the streets again.

The bearded men from Mosques emerge,
Their Salat done, they’re homeward bound.
While from the pubs the clubbers pour,
Their spirits high as they head off
To taxis waiting in the rain.

On Friday night the cultures cross,
And pass before each other’s eyes,
Invisible, I sit and watch,
This drama, sacred and profane.

© Graeme Williams 2012

Dear Tooth Fairy...

I lost a tooth at school today,
Although I don’t know when or where.
The teacher sent us out to play
And, suddenly, it wasn’t there.

I realised, as I ran about,
There was a gap where it had been,
Somewhere my tooth had just popped out.
I looked but it could not be seen.

So when I go, at last, to bed,
Although my tooth could not be found,
I’ll put this note beside my head,
And hope that I’ll still get a pound.

© Graeme Williams 2012

Photograph taken from srett's photostream on flickr and used under the creative commons licence.

The Rubaiyat of the Reluctant Commuter

The panic starts, I’ve lost my keys,
Until my wife finds them for me,
Then to the car to join the fray,
And off I go, reluctantly.

I make this journey twice a day,
First, off to work to earn my pay,
Then when my servitude is done,
It’s back I go the other way.

Not that I mind once I’ve begun,
Sometimes the journey can be fun,
With music on the radio,
When I’m alone I sing along.

But then I hit a contraflow,
And as the traffic starts to slow,
The DJ says there’s some delay,
But, sadly, I already know.

It looks like I'll be late today,
I should have gone the other way,
Now it’s too late; I’m in the queue,
All I can do is sit and pray.

I might as well admire the view,
No point in feeling stressed or blue,
There’s nothing I can do or say,
Just wait my turn to trickle through.

I drive along the motorway,
I did the same thing yesterday,
Tomorrow morning, guess I’ll be,
Wrapped up in bed; it’s Saturday.

© Graeme Williams 2012

Photograph taken from Lee Haywood's photostream on flickr and used under the creative commons licence.

The poem itself is an interlocking rubaiyat in which the first, second and fourth line rhyme with each other and the third line rhymes with the first, second and forth line of the next stanza and so on. The third line of the final stanza rhymes with the first, second and forth line of the first stanza.  

Playing In The Rain

The cars splash through the puddles on the road,
And send up waves of water that then wash
Across the children’s feet to screams of joy;
While huddled under our umbrellas, we
Will watch with careful eyes their carefree fun,
And wish that we, though older now, could still
Find joy in standing outside in the cold
As cars splash through the puddles in the rain.

© Graeme Williams 2012

My wife, Chris, recorded a video of my children playing in the rain on her mobile 'phone. It provided the inspiration for the poem.

Sonnet for the End of the School Day

The school bell rings to mark the end of day,
And from their classrooms teachers rise and groan.
Some children leave the school in disarray,
And looking at the mess, the cleaners moan.
A brief hubub of noise as kids depart,
Then silence falls upon the corridors,
Outside, the school bus engines all restart,
As children try to pile in through the doors.
Those students whose detention has begun,
Just sit there, glassy eyed, as time goes slow,
They’re waiting 'till their punishment is done.
At last! They’re told that they're allowed to go.
While some staff gripe and all the kids complain,
They’ll soon be back to do it all again.

© Graeme Williams 2012

Twenty (Four) Lines in Iambic Pentameter

I managed to write a lot of poetry just from reading the stuff and looking at websites on the subject and I think I have learnt a lot. However, I wanted to take it further and maybe read around the subject in a more systematic way. With that in mind I recently had a look on Amazon to see what sort of books were available. In the end I bought Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Traveled as the majority of the reviews were positive and, from the excerpt I read online, it didn't seem too highbrow.

Now, this is not a review as I have only just started to read the book. Nevertheless, it has already proved thought provoking as well as informative. I have also tried the exercises that Mr. Fry has set for the budding poet.

One of the first of these exercises is to write a number of lines in Iambic Pentameter. It wasn't supposed to be a poem but, as I continued with the task, I did find a sort of story emerging. So, here is the story of my morning, told in blank verse:

Stephen Fry’s Exercises

Twenty (Four) Lines in Iambic Pentameter

I must decide what I am going to do,
As I don’t have to go to work today,
I could go shopping, as I need new shoes,
Or else I could just waste the day away.

I’m drinking coffee staring at the screen,
Wondering what I’m about to write.
My wife is cooking sausages for me
She’s called me to come through; it’s time to eat….

…Okay, I’m at my keyboard once again,
I’m trying to do a poetry exercise,
It’s from a book I bought by Stephen Fry,
I could just sit here trying to write these lines.

They do get quite addictive to compose,
I doubt that I could write them all at speed,
Ten minutes for all twenty seems quite fast,
I guess I mustn't stop or think too hard.

But when I find I start to doubt myself,
It’s then I have to call a halt and try,
To count the beat upon the wooden desk,
Though when I check I’ve usually done it right.

I wonder if all poets do the same,
Did Dylan Thomas count with bleary eyes,
When he composed his famous Villanelle,
"Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"?

Square Poem

Though some may say I’m a square,
Some others think I’m a round peg,
May think I’m doing well to care.
Say I’m doing it with help. Not
I’m a well with water. So what?
A round to help? So are they!
Square peg, care not what they say.


© Graeme Williams 2012

My wife recently posted a link on my facebook page to Mark Forsyth's Inky Fool blog. He was looking at a square poem by Lewis Carroll where every line and corrisponding column reads the same (if that makes sense). My wife thought it might be an interesting challenge for me.

The Weather's Wet!

The weather’s wet, and skies are grey,
I wish I could just stay in bed,
But I must go to work today,

I’m safe beneath the warm duvet,
Not thinking ‘bout the day ahead,
The weather’s wet, and skies are grey,

If only I could stay away,
I’d rather be at home instead,
But I must go to work today,

"Get up, get out, and earn your pay!"
A little voice screams in my head.
The weather’s wet, and skies are grey,

A normal British summer’s day,
With forecasts of more rain ahead,
But I must go to work today,

I wish there were another way,
In which to earn my daily bread,
The weather’s wet, and skies are grey,
But I must go to work today.

© Graeme Williams 2012

This poem is also available on www.poemhunter.com. Photograph taken from Presence Photography's photostream on flickr and used under the creative commons licence. I must, however, apologise as his photograph is actually of Dublin in Ireland rather than Britain, but the photograph so matched the poem that I hope he'll forgive me.

In Farmers' Fields

In farmers’ fields the lovers go,
Sneak, hand in hand, where crops do grow,
Take off their clothes; together lie,
To kiss and touch beneath the sky,
Their bodies warm in summer’s glow

And if the chill North wind should blow,
They’ll shelter ‘neath the tall hedgerow,
To live and love and laugh and sigh,
In farmers’ fields.

Some lovers come and some may go,
Into the fields where crops do grow,
But if the farmer they should spy,
They’ll have to run: clothes all awry,
Before there’s time their seed to sow,
In farmers’ fields.

© Graeme Williams 2012

A Rondeau which is based on that famous piece by John McCrae called In Flander's Fields. No disrespect is intended to the original author, or indeed, to the memory of those who died during the First World War. Photograph taken from Secret Tenerife's photostream on flickr and used under the creative commons licence.

Counting Sheep

If I, at night, should find I cannot sleep,
Then, in extremis, I try counting sheep,
And if I’m helpless with anxiety,
Merinos are the best variety.

© Graeme Williams 2012

This poem is also available on www.poemhunter.com. Photograph taken from Alex E. Proimos' photostream on flickr and used under the creative commons licence.

Looking In The Mirror

Wiser and
Older now but,
Love desiring.
Nevertheless,
Ageing gracefully,
And still sensuous;
Desiring and desirable.
Youth lost but wisdom gained,
Visible in the mirror’s reflection.
Mature
Reflection mirrors the invisible:
Gained wisdom but lost youth.
Desirable and desiring,
Sensuous still and
Gracefully ageing,
Nevertheless,
Desiring love,
But now older
And wiser.

© Graeme Williams 2012



Photograph taken from Amanda Slater's photostream on flickr and used under the creative commons license.

The Space Race

The Twentieth Century saw a race,
For the outer reaches of space,
The needs of the human race,
Were steadily replaced,
As with undue haste,
The nations raced,
And embraced,
The chase,
Space!

© Graeme Williams 2012

Wealth and Poverty

With all of our technology,
And experts in biology,
There’s one thing that still puzzles me.

Why children still go hungry,
While some, in our economy,
Are dying of obesity.

I question the philosophy,
Or economic policy,
That makes our life expectancy,
A matter of geography.

© Graeme Williams 2012

Photograph taken from the Feed My Starving Children photostream on flickr and used under the creative commons licence. I wrote the poem first then came across what seemed to be the perfect picture to illustrate it.

Bedtime Routines (Rewritten 2022)

It's time for kids to go to bed,
On weary feet upstairs they tread,
Once teeth are brushed and stories read,
They snuggle down,
Beneath their duvet covers spread,
They start to yawn.

And now there’s one last hug goodnight,
To finish off the bedtime rite,
A favourite toy is cuddled tight,
And soon they’re drifting,
As we turn off the bedroom lights,
They’re gently breathing.

But then one child downstairs will creep,
Complaining that they cannot sleep,
With bedclothes snarled up in a heap.
A tale of woe,
Untangled with a single sweep,
Then back they go.

And later on upstairs we’ll sneak,
Into their rooms to take a peek,
To see them lying there, so sweet.
There’s not a peep,
One final kiss upon the cheek,
They’re fast asleep.

© Graeme Williams 2012 & 2022

This was one of the first poems I ever wrote as an adult. However, when I returned to it ten years later, I discovered that there were all sorts of things wrong with the rhythm. I rewrote it ready to peform at the 10th Aniversary of Hull's Away With Words Open mic night.