Category Archives: Poetry

Let’s Talk About Breasts

Let’s talk about breasts, so we won’t get offended

When breastfeeding mothers, as nature intended

Are feeding their babies whilst lunching or shopping

Mammalian feeding for mammals? How shocking!

 

The formula milk boys would have them all banned

Those mothers who proffer the mammary gland

This natural feeding is denting their coffers

For mother knows breast with her two for one offers.

 

Carry on mums, breastfeed with impunity

Go nourish your baby: pass on your immunity

And stick up two fingers to those who complain

For mammals who moan about boobs are insane.

 

The proper response to the sight of a lady

Minding her business whilst nursing her baby

Is to smile at the beauty of motherhood’s gift

And mend, if we can, this unnatural rift.

Breastfeeding woman

Image by Valeria Rodriguez

Even More Donald Trump

Hooray for the Trumpster, he may appear manic
But he’s friend to the black man, the Jew and Hispanic
He doesn’t like Mexicans: all of them rapists
And since the Pope dissed him he’s not fond of “papists”
Hoorah for the Trumpmeister: Trump Tower resident
Please don’t elect him American President
Some think he would govern with style and aplomb
(More likely a smile and a nuclear bomb)
Fair play to you Trump you provide light relief
But they cannot appoint you Commander in Chief.

MORE DONALD TRUMP

Donald Trump, Donald Trump
you inflammatory chump
you have told all the Muslims to go take a jump
the Mexicans too ‘cos their food makes you trump
don’t start on us atheists, we’ll give you a thump

Donald Trump, Donald Trump
did your head take a bump
did some angry young foreigner give you a clump
you should cheer the fuck up ‘cos you give me the hump
do you dream this shit up while you’re taking a dump

Donald Trump, Donald Trump
you’re a miserable grump
just sit quietly down, and try not to flump
it’s tricky I know if you’re prone to be plump
be less like the Grinch, and more Forrest Gump.

#DonaldTrump #donotbebonkers

Drowning In The Water Of Life

Drowning In The Water Of Life

a long time ago in the time of the hippy
a wee small boy who was mostly happy
was sent to school where he was told
aged only five
that he needed “a rocket up his backside”
just a figure of speech you understand
no firework insertion was really planned.

on the face of it the boy was bright
he could read and he could write
before attending any schools
and though he had these useful skills
his teachers (who should get a mention)
demanded much of his attention
and asked him every single day
“you boy! what did I just say?”
a dastardly and cunning ploy
to snare the inattentive boy.

the boy thought this a horrid ruse
this academic subterfuge
for no one said there would be questions
if they had asked him for suggestions
he would have told them to forego
these tests of what a boy should know.

the truth is most of what they taught
was lost in waves of idle thought
his ceaseless inner monologue
made learning stuff a tiresome slog
then at the end of every term
they’d send reports to make him squirm
and sadly the accompanying letter
would say the boy “could do much better”
although in fact this wasn’t so
it wasn’t that the boy was slow
it’s just he had a certain pace
for life is long: it’s not a race
and one way or another friend
we cannot help but reach the end.

the boy has grown to like his brain
(it would be futile to complain)
it entertains him day and night
as neurons randomly ignite
a stream of consciousness whose sparks
are fuelled by overactive quarks.

that’s just a theory by the way
what causes it? well who can say
and if the boy had just one wish?
he’d prob’bly choose a Babel fish
or some other memory aid
though brains are tricky to upgrade
they don’t have an expansion slot
you do the best with what you’ve got.

a theory which may yet be proved
if his memory were improved
the boy might lose his inner voice
which seems to be the Devil’s choice
his brain is set on constant shuffle
an inner monologue kerfuffle
which drives him crazy: keeps him sane
but let’s be frank and make it plain
to him his daydreaming is cool
although not valued much at school
“you boy, what did I just say?”
that’s what they asked him every day.

don’t rush the ruminating boys
protect them from extraneous noise
they’ll get there – just a little later
don’t cram their heads with endless data
that’s what the internet is there for
creativity is therefore
simpler with a broadband router
smart phone, tablet, or computer.

the boy is in his fifties now
been married over thirty years
his wife still sends him to the shops
to buy comestibles and beers.

when buying two items or fewer
from the baker or the brewer
the boy will mostly get the gist
but more than that requires a list.

his true love is a patient soul
she knows his foibles and his quirks
and circumvents them on the whole
a strategy that sometimes works.

and he is grateful; he is glad
his ever loving, caring wife
knows exactly how his mind is
(he hopes it doesn’t cause her strife)
without her he’d have lost his marbles
this disorder’s running rife
without her he’d have drowned for sure
a long time ago in the water of life.

Artist Envy

Artists, I hate you all
With your canvas big or small
With your palette and your easel
Brushes made from hair of weasel
I envy you above all folks
And your little arty jokes
(At those who cannot paint for toffee)
With fellow artists over coffee.

What better way to pay for food
Encapsulating in the nude
The essence of the human form
Or stuffy men in uniform
Or landscapes of the highest peaks
Or an abstract scream that speaks
To those of us, who nothing more,
Would love the skills to paint and draw.

Let’s not pretend what is or ain’t
For those who cannot draw or paint
May well have skills of other ilk
Like making cheese from curdled milk
Or brewing beer from hops and barley
Or customising someone’s Harley
But probably should never choose
Careers in permanent tattoos.

So paint away, if paint you must
Express your anger or your lust
Your grief or other sad emotions
Or just do ships that sail the oceans
Or jungle wildlife in situ
Or any topic that may fit you
But keep your subject choice astute
And please refrain from bowls of fruit.

Xenophobia

Beware the pure bred xenophobe
His rage is quite frenetic
He might not like it if you probe
His heritage – genetic
His family have been here
Since the melting of the ice
Avoiding nasty foreigners
To keep their bloodline nice.

He hates the bloody Romans
And the Angles and the Jutes
And the Saxons and the Vikings
With their tendency to loot.
He hates the dreaded Normans
Though they bravely took their chance
In truth he isn’t very fond
Of anything from France.

He doesn’t mind the Indians
He wishes they’d come sooner
As he’s partial to their Tarka Dhal
And Vegetable Bhuna
For centuries the xenophobe
Was desperately in need
Of stimulated taste buds
Instead of boiled swede.

He detests the poor old Hugenots
Abhors the bloomin’ Jews
And Somali’s are all pirates
He has seen it on the news
He doesn’t like those aeroplanes
Or ocean going boats
Enabling all these foreigners
To circumvent his moat.

“It’s come to such a sorry state,”
He’s telling all his mates
“I’m thinking about selling up
And moving to the States.”
The irony is lost on him
So let’s not point it out
For reasoning is futile;
Xenophobia’s about.

Beware the pure bred xenophobe
His Mother was a virgin
What madness to have random tribes
Genetically mergin’?

The Word You Were Looking For Is REFUGEE

the word you were looking for
is
REFUGEE
it doesn’t have a synonym
it’s not the same as
migrant
(prob’bly economic)
nor the same as
immigrant
(which can be sardonic)

there’s a picture of a girl
in a pretty spotted dress
she is lying on a beach
and her hair is a mess
where was it taken?
somewhere by the Med
but it doesn’t matter now
for now she is DEAD

just to be clear then
REFUGEE
(the clues in the name)
means ‘one who seeks refuge’
from the ravages of war
or persecution
seeking compassion
the cup of human kindness
a peaceful resolution
to a bad situation

you reap what you sow you know
with your immoral polity
waging war remotely
through stupid ‘foreign policy’
so wave after wave of them
fleeing from the fighting
are coming round to your house
don’t be so frightened

and above all else
it might be sporting
if we gave them safe passage
and some accurate reporting

just to be clear again
the girl in the spotted dress
dead on a foreign beach
drowned in the sea
she wasn’t a migrant
she was not an immigrant
she was somebody’s daughter
and a
REFUGEE

Feel Free To Use My Organs

When I am dead as dead can be, like Betamax and faxes
Like dinosaurs and dodo birds, like quills and sealing waxes
Feel free to use my organs if they can be of use
But be sure to check my liver; it has suffered some abuse.

My heart was broken only once it may still pump some blood
My brain is entertaining but my memory’s a dud
You’re welcome to my pancreas (whatever that is for)
And likewise my appendix I won’t need it any more.

Although I have no donor card (despising paperwork)
Feel free to take my organs with a scalpel or a dirk
Or if you are a gardener you could use a garden pruner
But only when I’m quite extinct, and not a second sooner.

Feel free to use my corneas to give the gift of sight
My hair could make a lovely wig for going out at night
To make some snazzy moccasins do utilise my skin
But please make absolutely sure that I’m no longer in.

Feel free to use my organs if I am entirely dead
But if there’s any doubt please give me CPR instead.

Beware The Commuter

Beware the commuter who sits on the train
The one with the tickly cough
He may have the plague or some avian flu
That’ll probably carry you off.

Put a bag on his head if he doesn’t object
Though try not to cause a kerfuffle
As he may be contagious when flailing about
For lurgy can spread in a scuffle.

Avoid meeting strangers if ever you can
Though of course this can be quite a fuss
Wear a mask if you have one, and try to avoid
Those people who go on the bus.

Your compulsion to travel shows little concern
For your body’s infection defences
Mixing with people endangers your health
Stay home till you come to your senses.

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