Poetry to make you smile and maybe laugh

Farewell my little ones.

Every day I see a little less of you
there've been times I sat down and cried.
I wanted to cling on to seeing you
God knows how hard I tried.
But every day in every way
the obstacle between us grows.
It's a part of me but how I hate my gut
when it hides you from me - my toes.

The last poem for the Writer's Digest PAD Challenge.
The Prompt was to write a Farewell poem

I think that I shall never be...

I think that I shall never be
as impressed with anyone as much as me.
I am so undeniably clever
That I'll stay impressed with me forever and ever.

I just hope that everyone eventually
will realise what a treasure they have in me
and the thing most notable of me yet the oddest,
is how I manage to stay so admirably modest.

This poem was inspired by the marvellous @JulieMeMeson on Twitter. Her Tweets gave me many happy moments.

Never do...

She came on Twitter in a mood so bitter
that she said things she wished she hadn't.
Then her husband quit her for the baby sitter
leaving her not so much bitter as saddened.

Giving *TMI on the internet is never a good idea
the traces left are indelible and impossible to clear.
It's something we should never do,
like keeping tin tacks in your shoe
or filling your windscreen washer with glue
or admitting you like the smell of poo.

Unless you want us to remember you
as the person who did things they should never do,
then please remember what I'm telling you:
NEVER DO THE THINGS YOU SHOULD NEVER DO.

*TMI - Too Much Information

Well you asked for it.

Bugger
off
I
won't
do
this.

This
bugger
do.
Off
won't
I?

I
this
won't.
Bugger
off
do!

Do
I?
Off!
This
bugger
won't.

Won't
do
bugger
I.
This
off!

Off!
Won't!
This
do
I
bugger.

Bugger off !
I won't !
Do this!

I found something to say with a Sestina!!!

What's in a Name?

There was a woman didn't live in a shoe,
but a council apartment,
she might just live near you.

Her children were named in the hope that one day
celebrity riches would be coming their way.
So she chose their names so they'd stand out,
didn't know what they meant and at meal times she'd shout :

"Food's ready Sestina, Salmonella, Vagina,
Colonic, Ebola, hurry up Spirulina!
Get it while it's hot Gonnorrhea you too Escherischa,
Candida, Chlamydia and you Analfissure."

Once at the table she gazed at her brood,
the future of TV, all gobbling their food.

I have certain unbreakable rules in my poetic moral code.
I will only write a poem if I have something to say with it.
I will not write a poem about poetry, or how I feel about poetry.
I am not a good enough poet to write a poem to *say* something in Sestina form.
So today's Poem a Day prompt 28 put me in a bit of a dilemma.
It wanted either a Sestina or a poem about a sestina.

I was saved by remembering a William Brown story by Richmal Crompton - where William was told by his father that if he managed to achieve some challenge his father would "eat my hat" - and then William did achieve the task.
William saved his father's honour by suggesting they name a gob-stopper( kind of old fashioned British candy) 'My hat' and then his Dad could eat one of those, and his word would remain unbroken.

My submission today is my version of that solution - a poem about a Sestina.

Entente Cordiale.

When my French father first came to Britain
He was scared to laugh at a joke.
For although he knew the British
were a very dignified folk,
he had expected to fit in
& live happily ever after
Until he read the headline
'Jailed 10 years for mans laughter.'

Travel Poem 1.

That's all he knew.

"It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive" said DH Lawrence wittily.
All I can say is, he must never have driven on the Autostrada in Italy.

Travel Poem 2.

A Taste of France ? Non mon sewer!

Never miss a chance
to drive in Northern France
on the lovely roads marked N
They were designed
with you in mind
by understanding men.

The places through
which they take you
are beautiful and green
with gentle undulations
and many a sparkling stream.

And often as you
are driving through
a tiny French village
you are greeted by
yet another reason why
N's are better than payages.

The smell of food
from somewhere good
reccommended by Les Routiers.
A place to rest
and taste the best
maybe from the local charcutier?

But please take heed
whatever your need
no matter how hungry you get.
Don't be led astray
whatever they say
Never try Andouillette.

And if you do
you may well say 'Poo -
that's something I'll never forget!"

This is a genuine warning. Andouillette masquerades as sausage (saussicon) but is in fact made from the small intestine (in other words the bowel) and retains the smell (and possibly the taste - we didn't get that far) you would associate with such a body part.

Money can't buy you love.

I can't promise salvation
that isn't my domain,
or luck everlasting
or freedom from pain.
I can't help you find true love
despite being a millionaire
or how to lose weight
or save your hair.
But if being super-rich
is making you sad
I have an idea
that isn't half bad,
something to help you
escape and be free
just give all your money to me

The donate button is at the top of the page.
Go on, you know you want to.

Growing Up.

'What does grown-up feel like?'
I asked my dear Mama.
'Not now dear I'm too busy. Please go and ask Papa.'
'What is it like to be grown-up
Papa? Oh do tell me!'
'Go and ask your Grandma,
she should know she's sixty-three.'
'Grandma can you tell me
what being grown-up is like?'
'You'll find out soon enough child
run along and ride your bike.'
Here I am at 47 and still without a clue
I don't feel like a grown-up yet, do you?

Can you work it out?

Always the same since the birth of time
when the first politician oozed out of the slime.

This question I ponder while they still exist -
if evolution's true why were politicians missed?

Photograph sourced from FlickR under Creative Commons

It all ADDs up

We've ADD thrice.
We've ADD thrice.
We've all been trouble to someone.
Been told we were hard work and watched them run.
But when we're together we have such fun.
We've ADD thrice.

This is about my little family of ADDers.
ADD - attention deficit disorder. We're all too lazy for the H (hyperactivity).

This was my PAD day 22 submission.

Rebirth

All that screaming, shouting and pain
why would I want to do that again?

This was my 1st attempt at a rebirth poem.

Re-incarnation again.

Once I was a teacher
but I couldn't be a teacher
unless I wore my teacher disguise.

Because me unprotected
was me unprotected
looking out of unprotected eyes.

Then I became a mother
just like that I was a mother
I became my baby's mother with joy.

But me as a parent
isn't *me* though as a parent
I am happy to be parent to my boy.

Now I'm not entirely sure
who *I* am anymore
but a poet gets me out of bed each day.

And with curiosity
I wait each day to see
what the poet in my head has to say.

This was my second. I just wasn't 'into' the whole reborn vibe I'm afraid to say. I think I was channelling AA Milne in the second one LOL I felt like I ought to skip merrily round the room after finishing it.

All I Want is...

All I want is to rule the world
it isn't asking so much
I am the right person for the job
because I can be ruthless if needs be
I have very clear vision and
I think things through.

I wouldn't come up with stupid ideas
that sound like great ones and
then let everyone realise too late
that they were actually extremely bad ideas,
but carefully planned so that by the time anyone spotted their flaws
I and my friends would have made a huge amount of money out of them,

because I don't care about money
as long as I have a roof over my head and
enough food - which is sometimes a lot - and
plenty of time to think and go swimming and
to spend with my family.

So if I can rule the world but without any
fuss - just have the world do as I tell it and
no arguments, because I am always right
so it saves time in the long run,
I'm thinking about an hour a day should do it.

But then again who needs all that responsibility?

Who wants it?

Oh - not me.

So all I want is to be left alone to get on with
things the way I already am doing.

If you know them, can you tell that to
whoever does rule the world?

Poem written in response to PAD Challenge on Writer's Digest Poetry Asides blog.
Not really funny, and not sure it counts as a poem, but well, it is what it is, and isn't what it isn't - which is all anyone can say about anything really.

Halfway round the bend

Halfway round the bend is a place where I fit
there isn't any other state quite like it.
It's not plainly bonkers it's not really sane,
but it is the spot where I've got my brain.

Halfway round the bend isn't bad it isn't good
I wouldn't have it otherwise even if I could.
I'm never in the doldrums and never feel tip-top
I'm always somewhere in between
and that is where I stop.

Halfway round the bend is a jolly place to be,
There are always lots of other folk
here with me.
So if you're the sort of person who
reads novels from the end
You're probably my cup of tea,
and halfway round the bend.

Poem Inspired by Halfway Up the Stairs by A.A. Milne

Virtuosity.

Here I am again.
'Hello day, hello sky, hello trees,'
disgustingly excited
to greet the day.

I wonder what's on Twitter
and how many spam emails
have filled my inbox
with their own twittering?

Birds outside are making one heck of a racket.
Tweeting is an understatement for what they are doing to my ears.
The crickets are competing and I have to give them credit
for holding their own against the oiseaux wah wah machine.

Has anybody sent me a real email?
Has anybody visited my blog?
I scan my stats with 'bated breath
like a walk-fixated dog.

The real world was a great invention
but it can't compete with virtual for grabbing my attention.
....
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I write poetry and go on Twitter to share it, then Twitter inspires me to write poetry so I go on Twitter to share it, this could go on for quite some time...:>>

Congratulations one and all I just wanted to say
it's nice to see you up here with me at the top today
I understand the struggle you've had to make it here
So in solidarity I send this letter to you dear.

It's on my lilac notepaper because we are all girls
though we're QCs we don't have to be bereft of frills and curls.
If I welcome you this way it makes it clear that I'm the Queen
of Counsels well-ensconced and well-entrenched to set the scene.

It's just like a sorority and I'm the leader of the group
when you get my lilac missive you know you are in the loop.
But I'm not really too keen to share the limelight in this camp
So although I send best wishes I am leaving off the stamp.

The purpose of forgetting to stamp your welcome letter
is dual, one is saving cash, the other's even better.
It results in newspaper articles and thus publicity
which focusses attention away from you to me.

Inspired by an article in the Daily Mail entitled Cherie Blair left red-faced after she forgets to put stamps on letters to fellow barristers - leaving them to pay postage fee. Obviously I have no idea why the stamps were left off and this is a satirical poem.

Watch out for the mad ones with things that go boom!!
They love explosions and noise,
being chased by the pigs through the gloom
revving their engines in joy.

But what are they doing now under the stage?
What are they fixing beneath?
Why do they stand angelic and sage
smiling and showing their teeth?

As townspeople gather to hear the holy words
that celebrate the feast,
They detonate charges with the "Christo Anesti!"
and shout aloud "So has the priest!"

Watch out for the mad ones with things that go boom!!
They love explosions and noise,
They never intend to cause anyone's doom
they are just crazy mad boys.

Young Bloods are bloody annoying.

I was always ahead of my time,
it drives me flippin' mad,
Things that are popular now
are old ideas I had.

And why is it prizes and stuff
are always for new young whatever?
When I was young all the good stuff
was for creakies who'd been at it forever.

But now I'm a respectable age
all anyone wants is the young.
Never mind how new and ground-breaking I am
they want yoof wiv a stud in its tongue.

By the time I am dead and buried
old fogies will be back in fashion
but it will be too late for me
I'll be dead and thus lacking in passion.

I never saw the point in getting
recognised posthumously,
and I know deep down
what goes around
will never come round for me.

So why do I keep going?
It certainly ain't for the money.
I've come to think I'm out of sync
cos my brain's wired up all funny.

My husband's hot buns. (Okay they are cross too)

ingredients for dough recipe

500g strong white flour
10g salt
20g sugar
80 g raisins
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1 packet dried bread yeast
300ml water

paste cross recipe

1/2 cup flaked almonds
2 tablespoons plain flour
20g sugar

method.

Combine all dry ingredients for dough in large mixing bowl and mix thoroughly.

Make well in centre add the water and combine to form a soft dough.

Knead thoroughly for 20 minutes. If your raisins are dropping out of the dough add a little more water without getting it so wet that it sticks to the bowl.

After 20 mins kneading - place in warm place for about 1 hour to prove.

While dough rises make the cross paste.

Put all the paste ingredients together and blend adding a small amount of water to get a stiff paste consistency (like polyfilla).

Once dough has risen, punch it back and knead for five minutes.

Divide into 8 even lumps.

Knead each lump into a ball then flatten out with thumbs into a burger shaped and sized piece of dough.

Place all 8 on a non stick baking sheet, lightly score each one with a cross and keep warm for half an hour to allow them to rise.

preheat the oven to 180 C

Once buns have risen and dough has split to make cross shape, pipe in the almond paste to fill the cross shape. Don't worry if the piped cross just 'sits' rather than fills.

Put in oven for 15 - 20 minutes until the dough is dark golden brown (David Dickinson brown).

While baking add 4/5 teaspoons of sugar to half a cup of freshly boiled water.

Once buns are done, remove from oven and immediately brush with sugar water to glaze them.

Place on wire rack to cool.

These are all that are left from the batch he made this morning. The taste was poetry so I'm counting this as suitable for my blog

Nothing good comes from sterile and pure.

The best things in life spring up from manure.

This was my submission to writer's digest prompt for a poem about Dirt.
It was going to be a long poem about how flowers grow in dirt and I even looked up the offical name for Borage as I was going to include something about that and try and look clever (boragga officianalis) -- but instead my poem insisted on being very short and succinct.

Maybe my tea drinking gnomes poem used up a lot of my poetry words for the week or something! LOL

A Tea-Pot of Trouble

There was a family of gnomes
who loved drinking tea.
Slurping those antioxidants
filled them with tannin and glee.

But they all shared a stubbourness gene
that often caused them trouble,
and arguing about who should make the tea
made that problem double.

So they had a family meeting
and by the time they had adjourned
they'd decided the best way forward
was that they should all take turns.

They didn't write down the rota,
they memorised instead,
but they all had dreadful memories.
You can tell there'll be trouble ahead.

Now this family of gnomes,
made up of Father Gnome and Mother
and Gloria a teenage daughter gnome
that's three - there was no other.

Gloria had a boyfriend gnome
who rode a motorbike,
he didn't figure in the tea making plans
and his name was scruffy Mike.

Well as could have been expected
the rota went to pot,
whose turn it was to make the tea
was very soon forgot.

The argument raging on and on,
needed a solution found.
Said Dad, "Okay listen here's the plan,
nobody must make a sound.

"The very first gnome who makes a noise
will have to make the tea.
But I'm saying now, I'm promising
that gnome will not be me."

So it was agreed and there they sat
silent as you'd like,
it was easy to hear Gloria's boyfriend
arrive outside on his motorbike.

In came scruffy Mike
to see his Gloria Gnome
and found the entire family
sitting silently at home.

"Hello Gloria," Mike said to her
but his girlfriend made no reply.
Mike repeated,"Hello Gloria."
he looked her in the eye.

She met his gaze, said not a word
and his temper began to heat.
Mike turned to Mother Gnome
with a smile that was not too sweet.

"Mother Gnome, why is Gloria
ignoring me today?"
Mother Gnome smiled at scruffy Mike
not one word would she say.

"What the bleep is going on?"
Mike asked Father with a curse.
But Father Gnome did not reply
Mike's temper just got worse.

"Right," said Mike. "Here's what I'll do
to make you speak to me,
I'll have my way with your daughter, Gnome
on this table set for tea."

Father Gnome's mouth went into a line.
Mother Gnome's mouth went thin.
Gloria looked a bit concerned,
but none of them would give in.

No matter the provocation,
how bad it came to be,
those stubbourn gnomes
would not make a sound,
or they'd have to make the tea.

Mike carried out his promise
or to be more true his threat,
The Gnomes all looked extremely cross
but they weren't making noises yet.

By now Mike was in a fury
his temper knew no bounds,
He repeated his threat
now for Mother Gnome.
Still none of them made a sound.

When it was done and Mother Gnome
and Gloria sat back in their chairs,
looking a bit dishevelled
with slightly mussed up hair,
Mike decided he was giving up
and leaving perhaps for good,
so he went off to start his motorbike
to ride back to his home in the wood.

But he slipped as he tried to kick start the bike
and the pain he felt was keen,
he had a cut on his shin
so went back for some Vaseline.

Father Gnome heard Scruffy Mike's request
added one and one - to get three.
Decided that enough was enough and said
"I'll make the tea."

This poem was inspired by a joke I heard when I was about ten. It was on a program called 'Joker's Wild' which was on tv in the afternoon when I got home from school. I remember people like Barry Cryer, Bob Monkhouse, John Junkin, Kenneth Williams, Barry Took etc used to be on it.

They would be given a subject and then have to come up with a joke that fitted the subject.

The jokes were often filled with double meanings. At ten I had a phenomenal memory and this joke just stuck with me.

I had no idea what it meant, but just liked the story I suppose.
I told it to lots of people, but it was a long time before anyone explained it to me. I can't remember who came up with this particular joke.

But I've never found anyone else who remembered it.
I have therefore immortalised it in poem form.
I'm rather pleased with it.
Hope you like it.

Dog Day Afternoon

The priest was taking confession
to absolve in Jesus' name,
when in came, let's call him, Mr X,
to protect him from his shame.

He had some terrible sins to confess,
many a sordid crime,
he carnally enjoyed canines
and he did it all the time.

The priest was quite beside himself,
he got into a frightful lather,
said 'Mother of God how low can you stoop?'
and was told 'A corgi Father.'

I saw a challenge in the Writers Resource forum to write a poem about a joke. But I just wrote a joke into a poem. I have the voice of Dave Allen in my head when I reread this poem back to myself. I think it might have been his joke in the first place. he used to do some really funny religious jokes, I especially liked the sketches involving coffins and the one with a high ranking church official being carried around in a box thing with sticks for the priests to carry it with - is it called a sedan chair? I think so.

Hope no-one's offended. I always found this joke funny.

Monkey Business.

My mother had a monkey,
she never said what sort,
it was when she lived in India,
it was from the wild not bought.

It was supposed to be a tame one
and with it she played
until it turned and bit her
then she got afraid.

Grandma asked a servant
to take the monkey away
because it had bitten her daughter
and she didn't want to play.

My mum was still interested
in the monkey though it was vicious,
So she asked the servant how it was
and the servant said 'Delicious'!

This is true - it happened in the 1930's. I think the previous poem got me remembering this story and out popped this poem. My mum was only about five at the time, her Mum and Dad (my Grandmother and Grandfather) were missionaries for the methodist church and were running a school in India then. That story was one of the ones we as kids used to want to hear again and again, and we were always horrified at the ending even though we knew it was coming.

Poor monkey.

But one man's pet is another man's protein

Don't have a Cow Man.

You can kill it, cook and eat it,
you can put it in a can,
you can stew it in a good red wine
or fry it in a pan.

You can slice it thin and salt it
you could mince it for a pie
it is delicious any way,
just don't look it in the eye.

For its lashes are long and feminine,
its pupils large and brown,
with soulful wisdom in its looks,
and demure when glancing down.

It gives the sense that it is wise
with knowledge beyond age,
it could put you off your dinner
even if well-laced with sage.

I've considered all the arguments
regarding wrong and right,
but I'm weak and it's my burning shame
I'm having steak tonight.

PS I'm not really having steak - I'm making chicken liver pate.

Day 4 of the Writer's Digest Poetry Challenge for National Poetry Month - this is my contribution today.

The problem with my 'poetry'
is that I do it all the time,
it very nearly always scans
and nearly always rhymes.

I don't do 'intellectual'
I'm not that way inclined.
Beautiful phrases aren't
a feature of my 'poetry', you'll find.

In fact my 'poetry' is regularly stated
as being free of poetic worth
hence most real poets hate it.

The problem with sawing your leg off online.

The problem with sawing your leg off online
is catching you first, I'm not sawing off mine!

I'm not an idiot I know it would pain me
and without a leg to stand on what would it gain me?

But once I have caught you, what next to do?
After going on ebay to auction your shoe?

For you won't be needing an entire pair
once I've sawn your leg off, one foot won't be there.

Should I sedate you or just knock you cold?
Or hypnotise you and see what unfolds?

I'm not as evil and warped as I'm painted,
oh that's saved some time, now you have fainted.

But I know @mrskutcher on Twitter - so big hearted
will have the PD round here before I get started.

It's insurmountable this problem of mine,
so you can relax - here have a glass of wine.
(It's not drugged or anything, honestly)

written entirely off the top of my head right here and now 9.31 3rd April

This poem was written as my submission to the poetic asides National Poetry Month Challenge for Today.

The challenge was to write a poem entitled The Problem With .... and insert a phrase or word into the end of the the title.

For some reason (Freud would enjoy this) the title The Problem with Sawing Your Leg off Online just popped into my head.

I felt honour bound to continue with that and as the poem wrote itself, the day's Twitter experience just squeezed its way in there. Today Demi Moore ( @mrskutcher) had some disturbing Tweets from someone threatening to commit suicide (not by sawing their leg off I hasten to add) and she Retweeted (passed the message on to other Tweeps) the message not knowing what to do about it. Between her and her fans and friends on Twitter, the threatening suicide was identified and the authorities 'intervened' to avert disaster.

This had been percolating in my head all day and found its way out in this poem. I do take the original situation extremely seriously, but most things end up kicking my funny bone off eventually - some things sooner than others.

Looks like the problem with our Ariston washing machine is the controller.

Hubby searched the internet
he searched it high and low,
For the meaning of those Ariston error codes
- someone had to know.
He finally discovered them
and as he had come to suspect
confirmed the most expensive part
- the controller card is wrecked.

Now it isn't a mechanical moving part,
that needs to cope with stress and strain,
all it needs to do is tell the machine
what wash to use and when to drain.

A controller costs a lot of dosh
almost as much as the machine,
so I will just have to hand wash,
as if my Ariston had never been.

But that old advert slogan seems now
to be a bit of a con,
For 18 months is not what I would call
on & on & on.

So from now on
my faith in Ariston
has gone & gone & gone.

My Ariston washing machine broke and left me bitter,
so I'm putting it on record with a Twitter,
my means of washing clothes has gone,
but my disappointment in Ariston
goes on & on & on & on.
Which is more than can be said for my 18 mth old Ariston washing machine

One of the downsides of moving to a country where we can't speak the language properly yet. Bought a new Ariston washing machine around 18 months ago and it has gone wrong.

Tried to get an engineer to come and fix it and four days later they still haven't phoned to make an appointment - and it doesn't look hopeful they ever will.

In the meantime we have contacted Ariston directly to try and get them to tell us what the error code means so that hubby can fix it himself, by getting the part online. But they won't tell us what the fault is. They keep saying they aren't allowed to tell us what the error code means!!!

So it looks as though we are stuffed! >(

We can't afford a new washing machine every 18 months - argggh!

Hoping a neighbour might know someone who can help.

But from now on if we buy another electrical appliance, we make sure first it is one that has plenty of documentation on the web, and is not an obscure model. Don't think I will ever buy Ariston/Indesit again though - the 'customer services' people were not at all helpful.

From the moment that he was born
I waited for him to become
tall and strong and brave,
motivated to get off his bum.

Beware of what you wish for
I won't forget that in a hurry,
he's gone out on his bike
while I sit here and worry.

Letting go of parental control
is the hardest lesson of all
the instinct is to protect
save them before they fall.

But along with food and shelter
and all the care I'm giving
I have to allow him to risk
to experience a life worth living.

But I sit here and bite my nails,
waiting to hear he's ok
and it will always be thus
its a price every parent must pay.