Paul Andrew Sneddon

Category: Poems

Bus Stop Boogie

Jul 7th, 2025

Bus stop in the gentle rain,
Waiting,
Waiting.

Old couple arguing about something, nipping at each other.

Dressed like they are on a hill-walking expedition in monsoon season for the trip down to the bingo.

Sharing a packet of Wotsits.

The wet grass.
Cars rolling by in the street,
Turn up the volume,
Ian Dury and the Blockheads
Burst through my headphones.

And I’m traveling,
Borneo,
Bordeaux,
Fantastique.

Feet tapping,
Moving,
Near ready to fly.
Suddenly, shoulders start going,
And the arms,

Like a dad dancing special at a wedding,

I’m moving.

The Missus is over the road walking a dog,
Chuckles and gives me a wave.
Saxophone solo hits,
I give her a wave back.

And I’m moving like Jagger,

Moving smooth like an old soul band,
Busting some moves like Sam and Dave,
Found the 46-year-old version of the splits,
I’m channelling James Brown.

The lights are on at the bus stop,
Like a late-night club.

Me and her are dancing together,
She always was a great dancer,
Natural rhythm,
Her perfume.

The dog’s the DJ,
Spinning the songs,
Looking at us like,

“You got this.”

The old couple are boogying together,
They used to do salsa,
They announce,
“You young ones are missing out,”

They laugh.

As me and my lady dance closer,
Slower,
As the beat hits,

And we are dancing down
The Champs-Élysées,
Santa Fe,
Troon Bay,
Roses and fireworks.

We hear the bus,
but it can wait.

At least a beat.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Sunday Nights

Jul 6th, 2025

Photo by Christina Deravedisian on Unsplash

Sunday night in the setting sun,
front step sitting now the work is done.

The universe is in my veins,

I’ve got my phone playing some songs,
rock and soul all night long.

Close my eyes and breathe it in.

Every Sunday, you’ll find me here,
some songs and a couple of beers.

Take it easy, let it roll.

Life moves fast, so got to take some time,
going to rest my mind,

The stars above the moon revealed.

The fuss and fury of the day, let it go,
breathe out, and flow.

Sit back here against the door.

The streets are quiet now; the day will end,
and tomorrow we rise for work again.

But I don’t feel alone anymore.

Cheers.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Pale Horse

Jun 6th, 2025

Pale horse,
running through the woods at night,
down the old trails where they never built the houses.
Where we played as kids.

Am I dreaming?

Sitting at that kitchen table,
or maybe that old wooden table,
where I wrote so many songs when I was starting out.

Trying to scrape meaning
from three chords,
and a life as yet unlived.

Cup of coffee,
maybe a tea,
or something stronger.

Looking into my father’s eyes,
gone now,
but back for just a moment.

I wonder if he would still be disappointed in me.
I wonder if he would see me, for who I am,
for what I’ve made,
my struggles.

Would it really matter?
Would we just sit,
for a moment,
and understand each other,
just a little better now?

A nod of the head,
and we part.

Pale horse,
running through the woods at night,
down the old trails where they never built the houses.
Disappearing, back into the night.

Context

Jun 1st, 2025

**** Trigger Warning **** Contains Swearing

Two friends talking about a mutual pal.
Someone you can rely on.
Says, “Aye, that cunt’s sound.”

See two folk on the bus,
a few cans to the wind.
One shouts to the other,
“Why are you acting the cunt?”

Crowd trying to stop a couple arguing in the street.
“Aye well, she’s a fucking cunt!”
She nearly knocked him out
when she heard that,
calling him a “bastardfuckingcuntareshole.”

There’s a woman I know,
Hear her chatting,
every second word she says is cunt,
like a full stop,
or an exclamation mark.

But some others
don’t say the word.
They’ll just call you a:

C
U
Next
Tuesday.

In Scotland,
we are fluent in swearing.
You’ve just got to get
the fucking context.

Work Ethic

May 31st, 2025

Work ethic, work ethic, work ethic.

Isn’t any good sitting round,
Crying,
Moaning,
Hiding.

On the couch,
With a duvet and a pillow,
Like life’s a storm to wait out.

Work ethic.
Get to working,
Get to creating.
Make something.
Don’t apologize for it.
Make it breathe.
Work ethic.

Get your hands dirty.
Give yourself to the work.

No one has a ladder for you,
So build your own.
With sweat,
Blood.

Work ethic.

The only person between you and the void,
Is you.

Work ethic.

Now fucking get to it.