Poetry by Jeff Green



by cricketjeff on March 31, 2011.  © Jeff Green, All rights reserved

His mother started hinting that a ton of TNT
Could rearrange his bedroom in a way she’d like to see;
The Hoover was objecting to the depths of jungle soil
And underneath the floorboards there were wildcats striking oil.

At ten he had been charming and as cute as boys can be,
Eleven saw him growing like a giant redwood tree;
But twelve was not a good year, he was getting things prepared,
For teenage angst and anger, though the war went undeclared.

His father was pretending that he wasn’t in the room,
Ignoring grunts and mutters and the murmurings of doom.
He used to be a talker telling jokes that wouldn’t end,
But now his longest sentence was an “Ugh Uh” to a friend.

At five his granny loved him, and he never walked just ran,
A six year old explosion ate its baked beans from the can.
From seven through to eight he was as charming as a lord,
Though sometimes in his tenth year he complained that he was “bored”.

His sister was the blunt one, never thought to pull a punch,
She told him he was smelly, like a year old “ploughman’s lunch”.
Her friends would never visit, didn’t have the strength to cope,
And would he PLEASE start bathing with a modicum of soap?

But suddenly he altered started showering each day
And scrubbing every morning keeping floods of spots at bay.
His beard was soft as bumfluff but he shaved until he shone;
A dirty little gosling trying hard to be a swan.

His mother was bamboozled and his father boggle-eyed,
They couldn’t quite believe it, though I know they REALLY tried.
His sister knew the answer though she swore she’d never tell
A new girl in his class at school, a blonde named Annabel …

Author notes

For those unlucky enough not to live within walking distance of a typical British pub a ploughman’s lunch, or a ploughman’s, is a meal of crusty bread, cheese( cheddar or Stilton usually), ham and pickle (relish). A year old one would be a trifle rank …