Watching wet suited fella’s a’bobbin’
Got to wondering and then some thinkin’
Why so much sitting, gazing and waitin’
Continuous bobbing with legs a’danglin’
There goes a wave, what’s wrong with it?
Is he just enjoying a tight suited, comfortable, sit?
Occasionally… Very occasionally, whilst waiting
Sudden activity occurs, legs and arms wildly thrashing
Damn, missed the crest. One of the best. Never mind.
Back to gently bobbing, legs apart, and feet aligned
But, about that previous excitement! A watcher might brood
Perhaps there’s something’ else. Perhaps something … ‘lewd’
Could there be? Bobbing alone. So brave
Some reason other than catching a wave
Perhaps something much, much more complex
An act’ Three letters, starting with S and ending with X
An orgasmic experience only enjoyed
By those, rubberised, temporarily eunuchoid
Up down, up down, legs wide splayed
Eyes fixed on the sea. Does he seek a mermaid?
Bondaged to board with tight ankle strap
Hoping with her scaleyed tail she’ll entrap
His slithering form with buttocks so tight
Providing the craving he longs to incite
His reverie of thoughts so lustful
Interrupted by an incontinent gull
Emptying it’s belly upon his board
He shakes his fist as away it soared
Then recalled the old belief it could bring him luck
With a wondrous thought he was struck
Untying his tethering anklet cord
The shouted warnings of others ignored
He slipped from his board and did dive
Would it be the last time he’s seen alive
No. He bobs up. His face says it all
Back to daily paper, page three, full frontal
So, when you see bobbing figures from the shore
They are hoping to enter a mermaid’s boudoir
There now, the reason is no longer secret
You are gazing on someone forced celibate
Tough luck you might very well say
But, rest assured he’ll be back the next day.
All of the paintings hanging in our home are memories. Sadly, last weekend, one of them, a watercolour of a favourite holiday place crashed to the floor. Mercaston Hall in Derbyshire. I recall on one visit it was the eighteenth birthday of the daughter of the owners. I rang the doorbell and she answered wearing a beautiful ankle length evening dress. …And trainers.
She was beautiful.
Artwork and Text by Jack Purvis OOPs
Never went to Uni., never had any qualifications. Never earned any letters to have after my name. So I decided to create my own award. Anyone can join, no forms, no payment.
OOPs stands for ORDER OF OCCASIONAL PAINTERS, or POETS, or PHOTOGRAPHERS.
A sharp inhalation of breath. Mine.
There! Did you hear the snap of a twig?
Wishing you are not on your own? No, I’m fine.
Pressing on. Carefully.
A small touch of fear
That thrilling nervousness. Presaging excitement.
Is it possible someone is near?
I can’t see anything. Only hear.
Where are the others?
I don’t want to know.
With their inane chatter banishing the magic
Of moments like these I find so rare
A moment so wantonly lubric
Wait, is that a gleam of light, there on my right?
Do I advance toward it and spoil this moment?
Decision made I thrust through the undergrowth
A swift glance behind I make the oath
To return again and yet again
Artwork and text © by Jack Purvis OOPs
It’s so hot
Let’s stop here my lady
It’s so cool, and
The trees are so shady
Oh! it’s so hot
Come, let us undress and do without
Us! M’lady, I’ll not bare my plums
I’ll sit and look out,
And, warn you if anyone comes
Very well. Please give a genteel shout
She unlaced her bloused top
Bared her chest. Not to entice
Splashed them, once, then twice
Stooping low, her breasts they did beckon
Sentinel did glance, just a swift check on
Lady calls, come join me and share
The stream’s cool embrace
On my feet, on my hands, trickling down my face
And see how my ‘nips’ stand forth, Oh!
Someone comes, we must swiftly go
Fingers hastily work because of her fright
Fastening laces so tight
She turns, with a smile, so bright
A gentleman, raising his hat. So right
A scene. To forget?
A scene, to delight.
Artwork and text © by Jack Purvis OOPs
What, to you, does a tear signify?
Joy, sadness, or just something in the eye.
How do you respond? Grasp the shoulders and share the joy,
Hold her close and reveal that it’s a boy.
Give a sympathetic cuddle with it’s irritating stroking
Sorry, didn’t realise it was your eye I was poking.
Artwork and rhyme © Jack Purvis OOPs
Autumn means the end of the bowls season,
A pastime, which, for many, has no reason.
With it’s competitions, friendlies, and roll-ups.
No! not a ciggie. Opportunities for tune ups,
Greens upon which friends, each try to outplay
By releasing a wood on it’s curving way
Sometimes sun baked, occasionally soaked,
Other times romantically, mistily, cloaked,
Cromer Marrams enviously elevated above the sea
Members hoping for weather so balmy
But, whatever the weather joy can be found
Especially when the words ‘a toucher’ resound
Remember last Spring, with it’s early promise
All leagues and challenges sorted and, no bias,
A look to the season forthcoming
Notices pinned up for names to be adding
Smiles all around, with just the occasional scowl,
A hope that there will be no need to call foul
The clubhouse buzzes with earnest intent
Then out to the tourney let’s make it a splendid event
The captains’ words, he or she does expound
Then split into teams, handshakes all around
Newbies rubbing shoulders with those so well versed
But all are now equal, in the sport, deeply immersed
Sadly, time moves on, to the final day
The verve that filled many a step, no longer gay
Shoulder to shoulder, members stand, only one game to finish
Please let it end with a wonderful flourish
Rink number one from road to sea for that tourney
Soon, a final drink, leaving only, the homeward journey
The evening draws on, a slight chill in the air
The last wood to be bowled, Oh! let it be fair,
That sensuous curve, it’s on the right track,
Closer, yet closer, nearing the jack,
This one final effort please don’t let it miss
Then slowly, slowly, they touch.
A last fond kiss.
(Photo is of Jackie, my wife)
Photograph and poem © Jack Purvis OOPs