Category: Bad Poetry

Plant eaters of the world, we salute you

The T-Rexes weren’t so tough, couldn’t get it on
One little cold spell and they bit the dust
Survival of the fittest and the Herbivores won
We warmed to the Ice Age while the rest went bust

So me and Barry the Bronto, the last of our breeds
We’re never in one place, we roam from jungle to forest
with a hup two, three, four, dress it up, two, three, four
Searching for a verbosari or two to nibble for breakfast

And then we espy a gringomere herb that we’ve not tasted in years
Jurassic Park! There’s a girl using it as a sun bed
And she’s got a hundred and one guardians around her
Times like this us herbies wish we were T-Rexes instead

Pome: Girl in a dream

It’s alright for you lot just ‘avin’ a larf!
But that’s me in the picture wot ‘Enri ‘as done.
And it’s my dream ‘e painted; you don’t know the ‘alf!
And my name is Angelica Cinnamon Bunn.

You’ll be askin’ me ‘ow all them animals came
To be sniffin’ around in my jungle that night.
Well I’d ‘ad quite a day, as you do in my game,
With a saunter round fur shops in town – my delight!

Then in the arcade stood old ‘Enri. ‘E’d stopped
To admire my sleek outlines, ‘e said with such charm.
When I told ‘im I’d show ‘im some more if ‘e dropped
A few quid in me purse, ‘e just gave me ‘is arm.

It takes a few hours to ‘do justice’, ‘e said,
While I lay in the buff and just studied ‘is cat;
It was stuffed and lay, looking surprised, on the bed –
But ‘e wouldn’t let on ‘ow it ended like that.

That evening ‘e took me to dinner, you see.
And ‘e asked me to sit again soon, s’il vous plait.
Then I told ‘im my dream while ‘e painted; the fee
For the nightmare was double ‘e’d paid for the day.

Magic: JW’s Poetry Competition

On a bladderwracked, forsaken isle,
all swirled about with wind-blown gulls,
a wild man keeps his hut and hearth,
eschewing what he held most dear;
awash in toxic madness.

A giant monster, gnarled and raving,
marked by sun and raging winds,
bewitched beneath a pregnant moon,
and twisted like a mandrake root;
harbouring ancient sins.

Continue reading “Magic: JW’s Poetry Competition”

A pome about magic

I had a boy cousin (still do, come to that)
Whose whole world was, for him, a machine.
While the rest of us played on our bikes in the sun,
He took his to pieces – and not just for fun –
Testing modifications. Would this version run?
With occasional sweets in between.

 

 

 

One Christmas he had an old wireless set
Which he proudly displayed on the floor.
He’d removed all the parts and dismantled its case;
Examined each valve, disconnected the base.
Then (magic!) restored ev’ry one to its place;
Switched it on and it functioned once more!

The Flood

It was raining cats and dogs and frogs and
Fearing the flood would not abate I built
A boat; And two by two my zoo took shape

Caterpillars shared room with centipedes
But man, I kept the spiders from the flies
No tigers about so no life of Pi
Gathering my flock I prepared to sail
Then the heavens closed to bring sunshine
Thank God for that as I am no Noah
The animals are all female, probably
And it would be the end of humanity

You Are My Sunshine

It’s finally arrived here, sunshine that is.  Leaped  from the low 40’s (5C) to the high 80’s (30C) in the space of two days, no Spring, one day Winter, next day Summer.  Actually it’s  91  (33C)   as we speak.

So the theme for the April Poetry comp. must be SUNSHINE.  Any form and length, what a blessing it is to have sunshine again , it’s been a long winter.

Closing date?  Let’s say April 30, midnight somewhere.

Commissioning the boat so I’m off back to the bilges for a while.

 

Wishful Thinking about Easter

I think Easter is all about women
not all that religion and stuff
It’s spring and their hormones are stirring
to me it is all clear enough

It started back in them Dark Ages
With Eostre, a Godesss, who then
blessed the ladies with something
that makes them so different from men

They don’t like the menfolk to know it
so dress it all up rather well
with eggs, and most of all bunnies
which each have their stories to tell

The eggs women keep very private
in wait for some fellow to call
they only need us for a minute
the rest, they handle it all.

The bunnies, we all know what they’re at
whenever they are given a chance
it’s all really about procreation
and nothing to do with romance

To the poor men I offer this moral
enjoy the weekend of bunny and egg.
The rest of the year could be lonely
unless you are willing to beg.

PS   I’ll find my own way out.