South Wales Urban Sketcher: One Sketch A Day Two

One Sketch A Day Two

Antarctic bird
You're quite a sight
And that's a fact

In black and white.

From the top
of the tower
If you squint carefully
You can just about see
the sea

you see.

The future is arriving,
Although it's rather hard if
You live out in Port Talbot

- Electricity ends in Cardiff

Our least amused monarch
Since Edward the Confessor
Was Victoria Regina et Imperatrix

God Bless 'Er!

Tom was My Doctor, then
That's undeniable
My generation's one
Doctor of choice
He became instantly

Identifiable

All teeth and curls and that

Marvellous voice

My daughter asked me
"Will you paint a bright red
Vintage Scooter?
I searched and found one,
Painted it,

I flipping hope it suits her.

I guard the Admiral's Column
By day, and then by night
Not bad when you consider
I have neither bark nor bite.

It's mightily impressive

And that's to say the least

It really must have acted like

A very horny beast.

Who can imagine
The incalculable worth
Of taking those first firm steps
Beyond the Earth?

Some may think me ugly
Some may think me pretty
But please don't say I look like
A horse, designed by a committee

Alas, we are reduced
To little more than
Rattling ghosts.
Fondly remembered
Perhaps even loved
But gone.
Not for good,
But forever.

Arms akimbo
Harnessing the wind
Which sweeps like a wave

Across the flat lands.

Simple pleasures here
A city in the sunshine
Seen through tram windows.

I do this under protest
I did not ask
For my blinkers or harness.
Don't think for
One minute
That I'm enjoying this.
(Don't tell anyone
But I am.)

A place for shouts and sighs and cries
For up and unders
Scrums and tries.

Driven across the world

By the engine of the wind

Like a wandering albatross

Wandering

But not lost.

Time passes slowly

So do I
What's the rush?
When you are long gone
I will still be on my way.

I sing of a dark age
A wind age, an axe age
I speak of the splendour
Of kingdoms and kings
The wrath and the rage
Of the warriors' wyrd
And the cunning and craft
Of the art of the smith.

Built on the produce
Of Cottonopolis.
Buttery stones stand out
In this red brick city
A civic castle
And a symbol of pride.

I'm blue,
Dabadee dabadoo
So are you, you and you

(in this sketch anyway)

He's obviously very blessed
Our local ice cream man
A modern day pied piper

In a psychedelic van

Passions whirl like satin

to the staccato heartbeat of Spain.

More than just a symbol
of a Sisyphean task
A thing of majesty,
Might and beauty
Cantilevered arms embrace
Across the Firth
And people move
Across the face of the waters.

Ale flows
And so does nonsense

A cultural icon
Or a gross act of theft?

Or both?

He wages an uneven fight
He has his rod
And the fish?
Nothing but his wits, and frankly
Often that's enough.

In London streets
And Flanders fields
A rumbling presence

And a rattling good ride

How does psychotic Nicholson
Improve the Shining Hour?
By bashing holes
In hotel doors
With quite demonic power

A tricky beast is a cancer crab
The eyes that glare, the claws that grab
The claws that pinch, and nip, and stab
For all of that, I think he's fab.

Upon the screen
They don't grow old
And don't forget

That laughter's gold.

Noisy, smelly and dirty
(But that's enough about me)
Ah, the pulling power
Of grimy steam engines

And old photographs

I'd have to say a little owl
Would rank among my favourite fowl
It may not be so much in size

But who's to say it's not as wise?

Forgive me if I find I must digress
But who'd have thought of Vikings

Playing chess?

The original candle in the wind
A lasting icon
But a frail and fragile person too
The person, long gone
But the icon?

Imperishable

No Gothic revival this
It never went away.
And as it nears its millennium
Still it looks down
and down
And sees

All is well.

I'll drink another cup
Its rich and bitter virtues
Will caress my senses
Into wakefulness,
And lo, with a sublime taste

The day begins anew.

Isn't it ironic
That a bird which builds no nest
Should find such ornate housing

Is the kind he likes the best?

Not good enough
This sketch, and what a cost
The world cup semi final -

England lost.

Although, perhaps he isn't always good

He isn't evil, just misunderstood.

One of the seaside's rather common sights

A group of ladies put the world to rights.

The drought has seen the River Afan wane
Shrinking underneath the steelworks' cranes.

On Afan Argoed's paths
I'm never lonely,
There's plenty pass on bikes
Or Shanks's pony.

Sunday's routine doesn't take much topping
Worshipping the retail gods of shopping.

Croatia, Belgium, England
Must keep dreaming.
- France is where the World Cup Trophy's

Gleaming.

Father of English
That's what they call you.
It must have been expensive
When your child's birthday

Came round.

He had staying power
That's a fact
A constant superstar

(Who needs to act?)

A Prince he was
But when he had the chance
To be a husband too,

Well, he was pants.

Mine never would quite land upon the Moon

The closest that it came, my living room.

I never will begrudge
Spending some hours
Sitting, painting these

Kidwelly towers.

Even under grey and glowering clouds
Such civic buildings still stand tall and proud.

Effervescent he (that means bubbly)
My opinion of the show?
Lubby jubbly.

Last day of term
A sponsored walk
After weeks of sunshine
We got soaked.
Divine retribution
-or sod's law?

A last kiss,
From a slowly moving train
I wonder,
Did they ever meet again?

Here's an offer
Too hard to refuse
Quaff a pint
Where the Iron Duke took his booze

I wish you could hold my hand
Forever.
I have seen so much
In my adult years
And could lead you safely through.
Already, though,
You pull and chafe
And let go far too soon -
Just as I did too
When I was 5

Like you.

Life is a like a Ferris Wheel

Ups and downs

And going round and round in circles.

It's never much of a chore
To gaze
On the guy who gave us
Purple Haze

Stand at the edge

Of the world

And let the grey green waters

Carry your soul

While your body hugs the rail

Safe, but empty.

Time accelerates.
Years ago it moved
No faster then the hooves
Of a horse
Tethered to a farmer's cart.

Nostalgia
Homesickness
One man's meat
Another's poison.
Maybe it's because

I'm a Londoner.

Although, as a selfie sketch
I think it's fine
I really should admit

I don't like wine.

Cry your wares
To the streets, my boy
Those who would have you
Still your cry
Would shed no tears
If you were to die
Nor spare a coin
But pass you by.

Why is it
That we take such a pride
In the idea that clowns
Are all sighing, and crying
And dying
Inside?

The febrile atmosphere mounts
As we sit and wait
To get on the plane
Where we will sit

And wait.

I play for myself,
Most of the time,
But should you put your coins
In my hat,

I won't refuse.

I find that I like to take stock
Of Cathedrals so highly Baroque.
Their domes and their towers
Transfix me for hours

I'd never be tempted to mock.

I'm risking the raising of groans
By saying, in serious tones
That men and that mouses
Who live in glass houses

Should really just never throw stones

From one chair to another
Speeding towards family

across a brown, parched land.

Wherever one wanders
Wherever one roams
Be it ever so humble
There's no place like

Somebody else's home.

The town bakes in the morning sun
Time slows to a gentle crawl

As we creep towards siesta.

I can't say that I've felt before
Much feeling for a Renault Four
And yet this Renault seems quite fun
While baking in the Spanish Sun
A feeling that it's hard to foster
Even on this Spanish Costa
But to this aging Renault car, though

I say my Costa Blanca Bravo!

I'm never unhappy
And never afraid
Sketching in public

And in the shade

No pollution
No congestion
No traffic jam
Avoid all of that

With an underground tram

Time portions itself slowly

Like an intravenous drip

Once again
I drink in beauty
While threatening storm clouds

Gather disapprovingly.

It is a sleepy little town

But everyone needs sleep.

A bleak memorial
Somehow it seems so fitting

For a bleak past.

This is not a jokio
When I tell you folkio
That downtown San Isidro

Just doesn't look like Tokyo

Carry me to safety
Carry me from strife
Carry me to hospital
Carry me to life.

Chinese, Japanese
Or Espanol?
Ah, the agony

Of Choice

A metaphor for life,
If you like
We all wait and wait

Hoping to fly.

I may be wrong
But I think I have a hunch
Why none of my friends

Ever joins me for lunch.

First time I saw it
I questioned my eyes
- It's still a great bus

Never mind the size

No noise
No smoke
No fumes
No mess.
What else?

No chance.

At the end of the rainbow
Light unravels
And drops from the skies
As music

Forgive me, but I feel
Much love for the surreal.

Who resists the siren call
Of tarot cards
And crystal ball
Look into her eyes, you fool
She tells you nothing
But conceals all.

I don't like booze
Although this may seem odd
To me, a cuppa coffee
That's drink of the Gods.

A slabby, concrete nightmare
just always
Looks so wrong.
I hope the meeting house
Will still
Be there when it's gone.

There was a young lady called Kate
Who went for a drink with a mate
When offered a gin
She said, "It's a sin
A milk shake? Now that would be great!"

When looking at dinosaur bones

Remember, they're more than just stones

They've teeth and they've claws

And those powerful jaws

Mythical symbol.
Of the proud spirit of Wales
Real spirit,
Strong spirit
And that's no myth.

I'm warning you, don't go alone.

Steel hulks
Unregarded, unloved
Waited for salvation
From the gas axe, and blow torch.
And saviours came.

Down in the dark

The black gold waits

Where no canaries sing

And no candles flicker.

It is there still,

And will wait for all time

If need be.

I do love cats
I have to say
-even if they're made
of clay.

Hotter than the fire of hell
We fill the night with marmalade smoke
And the smell of brimstone

Watch their films,
And you will always know
The mark of these two men
Who ran the show.

I've sometimes been told
That yellow can mean more
Much more than gold

Ah, I can never resist
The siren call of second hand books
The siren call
Of leather bound, cloth bound
Unbound books
And the smell of old paper.
Old knowledge, old stories,
Old ideas
Whose time came, and went
Or never came at all.