[John Whitworth]

Competition
SATURDAY, 16TH APRIL 2011
Lucy Vickery presents this week's competition

In Competition No. 2692 you were invited to supply a poem suitable for inclusion in Now We Are Eighty-Six.
A strong entry fell into two camps: those infused with the gung-ho spirit of Jenny Joseph’s ageing purple-clad heroine (‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple/ With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me...) And those that have more in common with the drool, incontinence and baffled absence of Philip Larkin’s ‘The Old Fools’. There are no prizes for looking on the bright side, I’m afraid: it’s the gloom-mongers who dominate the winning line-up below and nab £25 apiece. Noel Petty gets £30.

The room where I live is like a palace,
Hoovered and polished up bright by Alice.
Alice arrives each day without fail,
Dresses me, feeds me and opens my mail.
That’s Alice.

Though I’m a bit of a poisoned chalice,
Never a grumble is heard from Alice.
Alice has brought me a new kind of pill,
And says she will help me revise my Will.
That’s Alice.

When I’m too slow there’s a hint of malice,
Try as I might to please poor Alice.
Alice will help me as long as I’m good
And sign in the place where she says I should.
That’s Alice.
Noel Petty

Whenever I walk in a city street
I’m ever so careful to watch my feet,
Not to trip on a crack
And land flat on my back
With passers-by being politely discreet
As they bend down to help me get up on my feet.
So to keep safe on track
I’ve developed the knack
Of stepping well short of an upending crack.
Ah, when I was six I would do much the same
But then it was part of a bogeyman game,
Only treading on squares
To deter hungry bears.
Now eighty years on I have worse fears to tame
And think, as I steady my foot and take aim,
What else do I share with that me but my name?
W.J. Webster

Has anybody seen my house?

I went down the street for a second.
The pub on the corner beckoned,
And while I was walking, I lost my way,
Shuffling back from The Horse And Dray…
I think I had two and lost my nous.
Has anyone seen my house?

Sonny Jim, have you seen my house?

Just a small sort of house, with a dark green door,
It was in this terrace, but not any more,
And when I went out, I was in the pink
And I never have more than a couple to drink.
It must be around here. I’ll ask this hoodie.
Have you seen a house with a door which is
woody?
I’d just popped out...

Hasn’t anybody seen my house?
Bill Greenwell

O Timothy Tim
Has immutable hair;
And immutable hair
Has Timothy Tim.
It goes with him,
Or he’d be bare,
Without his hair
To go with him.

O Timothy Tim
Has one bright smile
And one bright smile
Has Timothy Tim.
It sleeps near him
In a great glass vial.
Sleep well, bright smile
Of Timothy Tim.
Frank Osen

I never was a good man – and now I’m eighty-six
I creep around the care home playing lots of naughty tricks.
I steal old Gertrude’s knickers from her locker by the door
And plant them surreptitiously in Wilhelmina’s drawer.
I sneak into the day room when I know that no one’s there,
And pop a whoopee cushion on to Esmeralda’s chair.
I tip-toe to the kitchen in the middle of the night
And nab a tasty titbit when there’s no one else in sight.
I wink at all the carers and I like to play the clown
By pinching matron’s bottom when I catch her bending down,
And when she turns about and says, ‘You naughty, naughty man!’
I swear to God it wasn’t me and blame it all on Stan.
Whatever pills I’m given I deposit in the bin
And fortify my nightcap with a healthy dose of gin,
Then, slipping into sleep, I think, if eighty-six is heaven
Who knows what pleasures lie ahead when I am eighty-seven!
Alan Millard

When Anne and I went on a walk
We held each other’s hand to talk
Of all the things we meant to do
When Anne and I were forty-two.

And did we? Did we ever do
Those things when we were forty-two?
You’ll never know. I’ve lost the thread.
My memory’s gone, and Anne is dead.
Elizabeth Teather