A.J. Walker

writerer

Going Home To Bed

Going Home to Bed

Sculptured isolated hardness,
skyscrapers of tumbled fossiled ocean-life.
Sea rumbles in relentless.

Sonic booms when the waves strike just right.
Jurassic souls separated from their sedimentary beds,
Restored to the sea by its might.

Ode to WInter On Fazakerley Station

Ode to Winter on Fazakerley Station


Reflective workmen sit beneath a tree,
smiling and laughing - on a tea-break high.
Bitter cold breeze sends shivers right through me;
a pale yolk sun smears the Wedgewood blue sky.
Winter freshness always invigorate.
Clarity of the light, sharp as a pin,
train from Kirkby visible along the straight.
Meanwhile a lone blackbird jauntily sings.
 
Fleeces keeping others toastily warm,
while screeching brakes make me shiver again.
Stresses melting on the railway platform.
There’s something comforting traveling by train.
These relaxing moments precious to me,
but I’m gasping for a cup of tea.

Night Football

Night Football


The kids don’t play football on fields anymore,
And they don’t play it late at night.
They stand on street corners, scaring the locals;
There’s something here that’s not right?

When I was a kid we played football,
From when we got up ‘til passed nine.
I even ate extra carrots,
To make the Night Football shine.

We’d stay on the field ‘til our parents
Came storming down the road,
“You can’t see in this!” they’d shout,
but we would never be told.

Somewhere kids lost their taste
For this nocturnal football game
Playstations, X-boxes, crap telly....?
but it’s mainly the parents I blame

All the fields I pass now
remain dark and empty;
And all the kids seem bored,
and drink alcohol aplenty

Well, it’s time for a change,
Take a stand, one and all.

Lets take the alcohol back for us,

and give the kids Night Football.

Super Sunday

Super Sunday

Sundays always used to be
dark and dreary in memory.
Black and white movies on TV,
giant roasts, as big as me
Now grown up,
well, nearly,
it’s still spent with the TV


Super Sunday footy heaven,
in the pub until eleven
with a pint, or maybe seven,
kebab later?
well that’s a given.
Footy’s on, so get a bev in,
check out the girl who is servin’.

Sunday’s for football, not for church,
no need to leave me in the lurch
if you want to do some praying
footy’s what to put your faith in.

New Year Audit

New Year Audit


A new year, again.
Another chance to draw a line,
and start anew.
A fresh page to start from scratch,
opportunities, new plans to hatch.
But didn’t I do it this time last year?
Where exactly did it take me?
What did I say?
More exercise, less beer, less
fatty foods, a ban on idleness and
prevarication.

I promised to write more ‘stuff’,
to learn the guitar and keep in better
touch with friends.
Where are they now? What has
changed?
I could have the same list today.
If I audited my management plan I’d
get a big fat failure.
Fine plan, but no
implementation.

Where’s the monitoring, the evidence of success?
Lost friends addresses, an inch or two on the waist.
Says it all.
Could do better.
Couldn’t do worse.
This year I’ll add a line.
Need to meet myself once a week
to check progress against self
improvement plan.


Not sure I can attend,
every week.