Poetry to make you smile and maybe laugh

A Silver Lining to Every Cloud ...

We were feeling kind of down
we were feeling kind of blue
He'd been diagnosed with disintegrating joints
and he'd been made redundant too.

So after days sitting at home,
just staring at four walls
we agreed to go to the cinema
to try to forget about it all.

But the seats were low and soft,
and his joints seized up and stuck,
I had to pull him with all my strength
and pulled a muscle myself - which sucked.

The film had not been good,
and cost us all our spends,
so we were feeling sort of glum
when we bumped into an old friend.

"I haven't seen you for an age,
how are things at work?"
He asked poor hubby who was limping still
from being wrenched from his seat with a jerk.

"I got made redundant," hubby told the guy,
"but there's more to life than wealth."
His pal slapped him on the back and said
"Well at least you've got your health."

We really shouldn't have been so mean
we really should have tried
But we both just looked at each other
and laughed until we cried.

The old friend stood there for a bit
while we both laughed like drains.
But we couldn't stop, so he turned and left
and we never saw him again.

Well we had no income and he didn't have his health
but it could have been worse - like a tumour,
and no matter how bad things ever get
we've always got our sick sense of humour.

Much as I enjoy my funny poetry blog, I sometimes felt that I wanted to have somewhere to share my more thoughtful stuff.

The poetry what I wrote in my young days when I got very emotional about the opposite sex and before I knew I was destined for a boring life of domesticity with the annoying prat of my dreams.

I sometimes still write about serious themes which won't come out as funny poems for various deep seated psychological reasons.

Plus there are the folders and folders of lyrics I feel duty bound to share with the world, whether it likes it or not.

But if I am going to lay out all my inner thoughts and musings like a dissected corpse in an anatomy class, then I considered it only fair to give others the opportunity to participate.

Share Your Poems Here is where all the emotional, deep, intellectually stimulating poetry and the obscure lyrics will be living. However if people want to submit funny stuff there as well - it is fine by me.

The current Theme for submitted poetry is Freedom.

You are free to submit poems and lyrics as long as they are your own original work and they are loosely connected to the theme of freedom.

Please come along and share your work.

The more the merrier.

Sat in the bathroom
razor in hand
Nothing ever goes the way
I planned.

You see I hate goodbyes
I never want another
I could try again
But I don't think I'll bother.

I'm tired, I'm tired,
I'm tired of you
It's a perfect time
to die.

Song on radio
Sun in the sky
It's a lovely day
For me to die.

You see I hate crying
It messes up my make-up
I could put more on
But it's easier to break up.

I'm tired, I'm tired,
I'm tired of you
It's a perfect day
to die.

I could scream and shout
Try having fun
But I need to share it
with someone.

You see I've got this heart
It keeps on hurting me
So before it starts again
I intend to leave the scene.

I'm tired, I'm tired,
I'm tired of you
It's a perfect day
to die.

So rain if you like
I'll be dead
Someone else can keep
your ego fed.

Think of this as you sit
in your garden shed.
It's a perfect time to die.

This was written decades ago when I was going through a very dark time. It turned out to be a very interesting song which I performed regularly and actually got requests for. It was 'spoken' rather than sung - in a very tired, bored, clipped English upper class accent - very effective to convey the numb ennuie of the character in the poem.

Obviously I am still here. I was not then, nor have I ever been suicidal. But I can see why some people do and I have certainly explored the concept in depth. I can very much recommend the service provided by the Samaritans, even though the people who answer are just people and sometimes not the right person for the caller.

If anyone ever finds they don't feel comfortable talking to a specific Samaritan I would advise them to try again until they find one they can confide in.

As a young woman I once called the Samaritans very late at night/early morning and after moaning on about my 'troubles' realised my 'audience' was snoring gently down the phone!! Luckily that made me laugh so much (after I had hung up, I didn't want to disturb their sleep) that it completely put my difficulties into perspective. How bad could they be if they weren't even dramatic enough to keep someone awake?

But that was a very rare incident - and I never had one fall asleep on me again. LOL

Dust

Sun rises in the east
in that simple fact we trust
light that gives us all we see
and makes a dancer of the dust.

We will rise up in the sun
we will join it as we must
light that holds us in its glow
even after we are dust.

Snow shines in the winter glare
ice melts in its rays
trees grow, unfold their leaves
birds glide in haze.

Sun shines on all who are
warms the sinner and the just
light that colours in the days
and makes a dancer of the dust.

(9 o'clock 1st May 1990)

One of the reasons I haven't posted poems frequently here lately is that I am Twittering a lot.

One of the dramas of the day, has been the rivetting story of Ashton Kutcher and his chest hair.

He sent out the distress call over Twitter today when he realised that his stunt double had turned up for work with a smooth newly waxed pectoral region.

Meaning that in order to keep continuity on the film he is currently shooting, Kutcher needed to follow suit,

He was not a happy bunny at the prospect

"Oh no! My stunt double waxed his chest. Oh good god nooooo!" he Tweeted.

Later...

"Son of a ... I think I'm gonna have to bite the bullet. Never done this before. So scared. May have to film it. Stay tuned."

Finally "My director RT @robluketic Sorry we had order the chest hair be blitzed."

In an attempt to cheer him up I sent him the following poetic Tweet :

Chest a moment is it true?
They've gone & ripped the hair off you?
Sympathies for pain & sorrow,
hair today but none tomorrow

I suspect it won't help one little bit.

Ashton Kutcher's chest hair - RIP (Oh yes I think it probably rrrrripped rrright off)

v1
I'm sick and tired of hippies
trying to do 'their thing'
& It's bad enough they're doing it
without them having to sing.

v2
They sing a song of nature
and pretty little birds,
the tune is only guessed at
and they forgot the words.

chorus
They'll make the world a better place
set to right all wrongs
they could start to make things better
if they stopped their awful songs.

v3 + 4
Songs about violence
and growing trees,
being stoned in the morning,
venereal disease,
they dream hippy dreams
and have hippy trips,
and wear hippy clothes
on their large hippy hips.

bridge
Green and brown, brown and green
the loveliest tree we've ever seen
brown and green, green and brown
nasty old society chopped it down.

Rap.
Hey Man - Tree Pie.

Save the tree, that tree could be your mother!
Family tree!

My brother's a tree - special branch -
but we're hoping he'll turn over a new leaf.

historical explanation

Written as a student in the 80's. Inspired by some girls who kept
turning up at our band's gigs and singing truly awful songs.
I don't think they were real hippies, just humanity students seeking
an identity to cling to. But in those days they irritated me.

I expect I irritated them too. Those were the days.

I am very pleased with my new blog for my novel One Piece at a Time

I think I have chosen a lovely design for it and I hope it will make the reading experience even nicer.

Please go and look at it and let me know what you think.

love,

banana

My Novel Experience.

I used to be just a poet.
It didn't take much time.
To throw ideas together
and shoe horn in a rhyme.

I didn't take it seriously
it's clear from reading this,
I write my 'poems' just for laughs
the rest is hit and(more often) miss.

I had lots of time for exercise
needed 'cos I'm a fatty,
which kept the blubber manageable
without me going too batty.

But since I started 'novelling'
things went downhill fast
I'm like a walrus in a dress
and I don't think that will last.

If I carry on the way I have
I'll soon be in contortions
squeezing into a duvet cover
to hide my blimp proportions.

My former sunny nature
has sunk into despair.
My skin spotty and greasy
co-ordinates with my hair.

I have back pain you won't believe
and swollen legs and feet
the less I do the more I want
to sit and cry and eat.

Then I found your blog post
I know I'm not alone
It's inspired me to start Wii-ing
to regain my muscle tone.

It may be safe in a week or two
to creep to the mirror and look.
But once I've finished the one I'm on
I'm not writing another book.

Poem Inspired by a friend's Mum's Birthday.

When I survey my history I wonder where the time went
how soon years pass and in the looking glass
I see things aren't the same.
Yet deep inside I still feel young and know that I am not spent
I still have plans and extremely busy hands
and loved ones to my name.

I may move slower, be somewhat fatter
no longer bite my toe nails,
But I like to think that none of that matters
they are just mere details.

I have my brain for what it's worth
I have my family and friends
I have their love and they have mine
forever and ever without end.

So when I survey my history and wonder where the time went
I realise it brought me joys and that it was time well spent.

It is not often that we get a chance to champion the rights of deserving individuals who can benefit from our small actions. The survivors of the Dunblane Massacre did not ask to be thrust into the limelight. They were children when unimaginable horror strolled into a place where they should have felt safe and stole from them their right to be able to grow up and learn how tough the world can be. They saw it at close hand at an age when the worst thing they should have been worried about was if they had lost teddy when he fell out of bed.

For some twisted sick reason a journalist and her editor took it upon themselves to revisit these young people and perpetrate yet another appalling attack on them. This time with a betrayal of their openness and a concerted effort to ensure that any hope they had of moving on from this and trying to live a normal life was derailed.

This is a quote from a blog post by Graham Linehan (who wrote Father Ted and the IT Crowd) and if you click through to it, there is a list of suggested activities (all respectable and honourable) which can be take to try and redress the balance.

Here is a chance for us to show those young people that the whole world isn't peopled by malicious users. A chance to send a message that a line must be drawn and this shameful article must be made amends for.

The Express wins the race to the bottom

All those useless thoughts, sent to torture the unwary after a tragedy such as this one, we knew them well. If only someone had sensed how dangerous he was…if only handguns had been banned a year before it happened, rather than a year after… In the days and weeks that followed, we were all endlessly replaying the same fantasy of somehow managing to stop Hamilton before he got to the school gates. But there was nothing we could do, of course, except respect the memory of the kids who died, and thank dumb, blind chance for the survival of the others.
That basic human reaction, that powerful urge to protect those children, has always been something I presumed was shared by most other human beings. But a lady named Paula Murray has disabused me of that particular whimsy.

Sometimes writing funny poetry is nowhere near appropriate. This is one of those times.

Top of the mornin' to you and all other manner of stereotypical blather.

Here's a link to my St Patrick's Day poem which I prepared earlier.

A Prickly Problem.

Sleeps curled up in duvet nest, knees upon his hairy chest
Prickly bristles on his chin - shave them off and they grow again
Weird weird Dad.

‘Watch the traffic!’ is what he shouts every time we venture out
Spiky bristles in the sink - ruining soap and on everything
Weird weird Dad.

Suddenly it hit me;
the truth was crystal clear
Bristles, lack of energy in winter,
that whole ‘road crossing’ fear.
The sad result of science playing a cruel joke
My Dad - A cross between a hedgehog and an ordinary sort of bloke!

Now what to do about Tony
my older teenage brother
Should I tell him straight away
or discuss it with my mother?
He thinks he has no problems as long as his team is winning
But yesterday on his spotty chin was the hint of bristles beginning!

Eating toast and drinking tea, things seem as they ought to be
Bristles shaved its not so bad – he’s all I’ve known and all I’ve had
Weird weird Dad.

A poem about how easy it is for children to misunderstand every day life and transform it into something fantastic with a combination of cluelessness and imagination.

Just read this story on Daily mail about a creature with the opposite problem a bald hedge hog !!!

Woolworths closed its doors and shut up shop
but Claire Robertson wasn't in the mood
to see a profitable business come to a stop
so she wrote a business plan and it was good.

She took it to the owner of her particular store
he agreed eagerly, she didn't have to force it.
So yesterday the premises opened up once more
as Wellworths, based in Dorchester in Dorset.

I wish Wellworths and its workers a future bright and happy,
If we had more folk in world like Claire the economy wouldn't be so crappy.

Inspired by the story I read in the Daily Mail of a Woolworths manager who re opened her store in Dorset, Dorchester yesterday as Wellworths. Chris Evans the DJ cut the ribbon and the shop was full of people in seconds eager to support a local business selling local products. On sale was the much loved Pick and Mix selection of sweets, for which Wellies will now become famed I'm sure.

Wonderful!

Here's my poem ready in time for when St Patrick's Day arrives.

When St Patrick sent all the snakes from Ireland,
he had the good of the people at his heart.
I wish all good fortune and good powers,
could finish where the good saint made a start.

If only peace and kindness built a fortress,
that no evil force could hope destroy,
then the people who were so beloved by Patrick
could live their lives in happiness and joy.

This is an image - click on it to make it easier to read.

This isn't a funny ha ha poem but a funny peculiar one. In fact it is a bit creepy. I wrote it one day while staying with my parents. I have no idea what prompted it. I was amazed at the time to see that when I centre spaced it how it looked exactly like a blue glass vase I owned and treasured. Completely taken up with that aspect of the poem I showed it to my mother and father who didn't react at all in the way I had expected.

A month later my parents told me that they were awaiting the results of medical tests my father had gone in for the week before my visit. They hadn't wanted to burden me with it at the time and had hoped there would never be any need to tell anyone.

Unfortunately my father was diagnosed with a fast developing form of cancer, and he died less than 6 months after I wrote this poem.

Now when I read it, I still have no idea where it came from. But the last two lines always help me when I get down hearted. It is always good to focus on how life goes on despite the dramas and heartbreak, and there is always something springing from decay.

This is an image click on it to make it easier to read.

He panted as they reached the peak,
his partner gave a happy squeak,
he didn't have the breath to speak
instead he simply stroked her cheek.

They were both hot and drenched in sweat
but they had not quite finished yet
There was more to give and more to get
to fulfil the purpose for which they'd met.

He made the effort to please her still
he was her Jack she was his Jill.
Even though he felt a trifle ill
and wondered if he ought to take a pill.

She passively waited as he let it fall,
engulfed in wetness cold and small,
after all just a little pail,
and very old and prone to fail.

Afterwards downwards he began to slip,
and couldn't stop his sudden trip,
He wished he'd just stayed home in bed,
and avoided cracking his poor head.

And that's the story of Jack and Jill
who set off one day to climb a hill,
and fill their pail with cool clear water,
were you thinking something that you shouldn't of oughter?

More eagle eyed visitors to my Poetry4fun blog will have noticed the PayPal Donate button at the top of the page. I have ummed and ah'd about whether to just leave it with its tongue in cheek (but partly not) begging message, and then felt compelled (guilt, pride who knows) to try and justify it.

Regulars will know that I am extremely lucky to be living in a lovely part of the world and I acknowledge that I am far more fortunate than a huge number of people on this planet. Frankly if it is a choice between bunging me a couple of quid or donating it to a charity that you know is doing good work for a (and almost everyone is) more deserving cause then please do that.

But the credit crunch has turned up to bite my family deep and hard on the bum. We have done the running round like a headless chicken part, the shouting at each other for being feckless reckless and spendthrifts, and even got to the calling advisory folk to get 'professional and confidential advice on the best way to deal with your financial downturn'.

Facts are facts and even on an idyllic Greek island the folding stuff is necessary to keep roof over head and toilet paper in the smallest room.

I have to admit that the advisory service we used ( The Consumer Credit Counselling Service - a registered charity offering free, confidential advice and support to anyone who is worried about debt.) has been extremely helpful and the donate button on the blog is in part down to the chat we had with them.

We don't spend a huge amount anyway, and we were just about to turn the corner when the credit crunch and exchange rate hit us - hard. So in amongst the ritual going through what we own and deciding what we can flog on eBay or elsewhere we are scraping around for any additional income no matter how small.

Given that I spend a huge amount of time on this blog, and given that so far over 70,000 people have popped along to give it a look over - it seemed worth a try to bung a 'Tip Jar' up. Just in the wild hope that a fraction of the visitors might feel inclined to do a bit of modern day patronage of a struggling (in more ways than one) creative artist.

So there it is, a symbol of humiliation and confirmation that no matter how free one thinks one is, bills will always be master of the universe.

But not to worry, we are fine and will get through this glitch as we have always got through all other glitches in the past, and if you are not inclined to give money to some stranger, then that is absolutely fine by me. I just thought it was worth a try.

Dream Holiday.

I would love to go on holiday,
when it is sunny and warm,
and bask upon the beaches
and tan my shapely form.

Dance under the pale moonlight
like a sleekly slinky cat
and have holiday makers point
and say 'who is that?'

I can't afford a holiday
I'll stay home and have some peace
and thank my lucky stars
that though I'm poor I live in Greece.

I won't be dancing anywhere
I'm nothing like a cat
I'm just ordinary plain old me
quite nondescript and fat.

Thoughts of the Poet as a Drunk Man

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Be like me and have a drink or five and then at closing time have a fight

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

I know I get miffed when they call 'Time Please' and I get the check to pay

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

They prefer Guinness but whiskey is my delight

Because their words had forked no lightning they do not go gentle into that good night.

Which means they get arrested and stay until morning locked up tight.

So don't do as I do do as I say,
It's fine for me to drink and throw my life away,
But you old man, must listen and obey,
struggle and suffer to comfort me today.

I share a birthdate and birthplace with Dylan Thomas and looking at photos also a weight problem. Alas hearing about the guy all the time has not endeared him to me. His do not go gentle poem always struck me as tremendous cheek. I am constitutionally annoyed by anyone telling other people how to live their lives, or how they should behave when death comes. That doesn't mean I am saying they shouldn't do it though. That would make me that sort of person too. But I just wanted to poke a bit of gentle fun at the ego which considers itself so monumentally wise as to boss a dying person as to how they should behave in their last moments.

Freedom Means...

I drive along the road with a smile on my face
and beep to say hello to the guy who wants to race.
I watch the motorbiker without a helmet trust to fate
and drink his cup of coffee while phoning up a mate.

I put all my rubbish in the one communal bin
The binmen take it away 4 times a day and never make a din.
The smokers gather in restaurants and it doesn't bother me
The locals gather for celebrations in groups much larger far than three.

It's normal behaviour to go any way you like
up a suggested one way road in a car or on a bike.
Road workings are achieved with the minimum of fuss
if we want to avoid an accident the onus is on us.

Health and Safety is a mystery of which no-one here has heard,
My neighbour heads off each morning armed to shoot himself a bird.
I walk in confidence alone - a woman late at night
knowing I am safe as long as I don't start a fight.

The police here aren't much in evidence, but no-one makes a stink,
folk mostly behave because they care what their neighbours think.

I wouldn't put all your secrets on my blog for strangers to read,

My darling son you are the one reason I ever had to breed.

I live to see your happy smile and hear your tinkling laugh

I wouldn't sell your private poems or pics of you in the bath.

I wouldn't make a living by spilling all your dirt,

Smiling and giving interviews while oblivious to your hurt,

I won't tell anyone about that secret I swore to forget,

In my need for attention I simply haven't sunk that low.....

not yet .

BWAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!!!!!!

Inspired (in more ways than the one) by the various news stories about Julie Myerson and her misery lit about her son. I will have to think about this and the opportunities that may open up with a less protective attitude towards the sprog.

I have a penis so big that I can't get out the door,
so many women want me that though it's huge it's sore
I've taken so much Viagra that I'm permanently aroused,
and drilled through so many walls that I have to be rehoused.

I wear a Rolex watch so good you can't tell that it's fake,
I've lost a ton of weight on a brand new diet shake,
I've been offered a part time job that I can do from home
But I don't need it as I've got millions according to Mr N'gome.

All I needed to do was send him just a hundred quid,
'cos the authorities' palms needed greasing and so that's what I did,
it was the very last of my social security check,
but soon I'll be stinking rich and therefore 'what the heck?'

But having a very large penis,
and all these women chasing,
is more than a little embarrassing,
It's something I shoudn't be facing.

When I get my Nigerian millions
I'll have to give surgery a whirl,
so I can get back to normal
after all I am a girl.

Inspired this morning by the gazillion spam messages I was junking from my email system. There's a use for everything and I am quite happy with this poem. I am very fed up of emails exhorting me to become a big boy - when I'm happy being a small girl

When I am Dead.

When I am dead and gone what will be my first memorial?
Will it be engraving or crematorial?
Would I prefer the grave or choose to burn
and be safely enclosed in a suitable urn?

If I am buried then you'll need to know
will a cardboard box be the way to go?
Or should I be ensconsed in expensive carpentry?
I might as well take a small forest with me

But if I am entrusted beneath the ocean wave,
Don't be sad, make me glad, and dance on my grave.

A comment a friend made inspired me to write this poem. I have a feeling there may be more to come on this subject of funerals. Reminds me of a radio phone-in where they asked people to recommend songs for funerals.

For some reason they were a bit taken aback when I suggested two for cremations - Smoke gets in Your Eyes, and Burn Baby, Burn. They seemed very sensible to me.

University Challenge Championship result overturned.

Poor Gail Trimble I have just heard,
from a little twitter bird,
That Corpus Christi have had to forfeit
so Manchester Uni won the final meet.

Put it all behind you Gail and just look ahead,
you've just got engaged so turn the page
and focus on getting wed.