Read how Fabulous Felicity solved the problem in Kiss and Sell
]]>Well I haven't done much myself recently but can recomment the prolific and talented Banana to lovers of comic verse.
Try this as an introduction, a story that will strike a chord with many parents of grown up, unattached children (and hopefull a few grown up children will take it on board too - ours in particular.
]]>Also check out some thought provoking poems at Authorsden:
Have a look at my sweetie Janet Caldwells interview and poems too:
EJTrad
]]>It finally struck me, blog other people's amusing poems.
So let's start off with A Prayer For The Late Lissa T. written by a lady who is sure she will be late for her own funeral.
]]>‘twas midsummer’s morning on Salisbury Plain
while waiting for sunrise on the solstice day
all around the great henge Druids congregated,
their anticipation made the dawn seem belated.
Suddenly on the horizon appeared one single ray,
I looked to my mate Pigpen on the grass where he lay
saying “rise up good Pigpen for the Solstice is here.”
“Fuck off hippie,” he said, popping another beer.
Check out Brother Bastion’s music at MySpace
]]>I am featured along with other poets bringing vetry different styles from around the world. The mag had been stagnant for a while as pressure of work weighed increasingly heavily on the previous editor, Sara Russell. Fortunately Robin, like me, is a gentleman of leisure these days so no likely intrusions from the increasingly frenetic world of the workaholic society.
I hope you get time to check out the mag, bookmark it, and maybe even consider submitting your work for a future issue.
]]>Not a comedy poem but one for my pagan friends, with a brief description of what Beltane is all about for the "infidels."
Hope to get poets coirnered back online soon but finding people willing to contribute is soooo difficult and I can't expect half a dozen people to keep it going.
]]>But I am getting there.
Cheers
Ian
Horizon News.
by Robin Ouzman Hislop
Nobody wants to say
New Millennium
Got off in a bad way.
No sugar for the coolies,
Government shortage of oil,
To pay or not to pay.
But O brave new world
In the name of your host et al
Your legacy's crashed.
robin ouzman hislop 2005
]]>the tradesman
is unctious, but then
sacks his workman.
a good man who
is not to blame
for his sad demeanour
the workman is bitter
he beats a beggar
who lives on the street
has no home or family
holds no position
and can go no lower
the beggar kicks out
at a passing dog
he kicks out his anger
he kicks at injustice
a rich man's injustice
that has trickled down to him
the dog has no reason,
no means of stating his case,
feels pain, instinctively knows
where that kick got started.
He shits on a doorstep.
The rich man's doorstep.
Check out Beloved Succubus a gothic horror poem with audio
]]>1. Haiku in English
Haiku are fine things
but not always well suited
to the rules of Eng...
2. 'ear 'ear
Do old mens' ears grow?
Or is it their heads that shrink?
Ask them; they won't 'ear.
3. Disconnection
A butterfly flaps
its wings in the rain forest,
that's all, la,la,la
4 To The Poet Laureate - Poetry on Motion
Poet Laureate?
He is not a poet and
he does not know it
5. England
England, my England.
Held up in a gridlock I
miss the soaps again
6. Haiku to Autumn (after Keats)
Season of mists and
mellow fruitfulness. Christmas
in shops already.
If you find any of the above makes your mind conjure up pictures of little pink mice dancing the can can just mail me.
Also spread this info around to your friends.
Power To The People
Ian
NOW SCROLL DOWN FOR TODAY'S POST
]]>The dinner plates of old England
are forever under threat
by foreign foes of every hue
from Capsicum to Courgette.
Since Romans brought their zucchini
to plant roots in English soil
invaders from around the world
have come, soaked in olive oil.
'taters from the Virginias,
Tomaters from Armenia,
Perfidious papist mange-tout peas?
They gave us schizophrenia.
The zestful, sneering citrus fruits
with their gaudy, ghastly skins
give native apples a complex, but
the fightback now begins.
Mangol Wurzel warriors, warlords
of the noble turnip clan
marshal radishes, parsnips, beets;
plumed carrots march in our van.
We will ally our armies with
hoards of stately English greens,
make kitchen gardens safe again
for honest native beans.
Hark to the hungry Englishman,
and heed his famished shouts
the phlegms can go back to Brussels,
and they can keep their sprouts
We shall drive out the offcomer,
no compote or julienne,
but steaming hunks of boiled grey gunk,
food fit for Xenophon.
If reincarnation is a fact
and we all must visit this earth again
with God or the Devil I'll make a pact,
but one condition I must make plain
I don't want to return as a TV star
a pop singer or Hollywood icon
I would not enjoy life as an athlete,
politician or business tycoon.
When I return to begin my new life
for me it will quite enough
if I can be just a humble flea
and live in Katie Melua's muff.
Fingers
Fingers hold your sandwiches
And fingers scratch your head
And fingers pick your nose
When you're lying in your bed
Fingers play piano, trumpet or guitar
And fingers make rude gestures
When you're driving in your car
So don't cut off your fingers
They do useful stuff for you
And you might find your lover
Enjoys your fingers too
But if you let your knife slip
Because you are in a hurry
Fingers are quite tasty
If you cook them in a curry
]]>
The Death Machine
by
Ros Thompson
These evil,
Metal objects.
The things we call,
Cars.
Each one,
A destructive weapon.
Capable of,
Maiming or murdering.
Powered by,
One dangerous creature.
That can,
Damage and destroy.
Fuelled by,
A slippery substance.
Cause of,
War and torture.
We don't,
Want to get out.
We're happy,
In our little world.
Don't want,
To think of consequences.
Too selfish,
To think of the suffering.
We drive,
Someone is tortured.
We drive,
And Earth is plundered.
Fragile world,
Polluted by these beasts.
Slowly dying,
Because of us.
Dedicated to those idiots, who make me wonder how they got a licence!
Sorry for the miserable ending!
Rosalind Thompson
Forget the designer labels
The Versace, the Lacoste,
New Italian handsewn leather shoes
Haute Couture merdé at haute cost.
Forget the snappy numbers
In new-black, new-pink, new-red;
Forget colour co-ordination,
Wear something old instead!
Wear something comfortable
Don't worry about the tear,
Or that the size is not quite right,
Why should anybody care?
Take these ancient moccasins,
They were ambipederous new;
Now they're comfortable in parity
Both left and right feel true.
When you wash a tee shirt many times
The cotton gets quite thin,
And perhaps there is a hole or two
But it feels so soft against the skin.
Twenty years ago, I think,
These leateher shoes were new;
Their grey shine now is scuffed a bit
But rub them and they'll do.
What's the point of wasting money
On new clothes when the old
Are good enough to walk the streets
And still keep out the cold!
Of course sometimes bare necessity
Forces me to the shop*;
Those trousers may be quite intact
And still match that faded top,
But Time has a way of changing things,
Old bodies most of all,
Stomachs tend to grow and grow
And make old trousers far too small!
*THE shop is of course Marks and Sparks!
For any American readers:-
To explain the Britishness of this - Marks and Sparks is the nickname for a
very old British Chain Store called Marks and Spencers - They became famous and successful by buying the London Penny Bazaar Company.Its reputation was made by selling
good quality British Clothing at a reasonable price under the Trade mark of
`St Michael's '
There is still a Marks and Spencer Penny Bazaar stall in - seeNewcastle Covered
Market
http://www.newcastle.gov.uk/vnev.nsf/shoptext/shopmark?opendocument
Well there is a bit of an oblique plug for Michael St Mark there too I guess :- Ian
]]>You said you would kill it this morning
as it jumped from your full cup of tea,
sploshed about with its feet in your Cornflakes,
raised one leg in a motion to pee;
You said you would kill it this morning
as it leapt on your head from the shelf,
but the look on its face, so adoring,
could you murder this part of yourself?
Sleight of Hand
Tommy had a tiny tool -
He was a ‘mini-muscle’ man –
He met a pretty girl one day
And slipped it in her hand
She thought it quite romantic,
In her hand she let it linger
But only cos the soppy girl
Believed it was his finger
To See Such Fun
Hey diddle diddle
The cat’s on the fiddle
The dog is having a moon
The rabbit smokes grass
The bird only farts
So who said that pets are a boon?
Full English?
Pinky and Perky sat on a wall
They were a bit confused
‘specially when Humpty Dumpty
Came and looked at them bemused
'Just hold on a minute there’ he said
‘This is my nurs’ry rhyme’
‘’We aren’t doing you no harm’ they said
We’ve been ere all the time’
Then poor Humpty he got proper roused
And things did not calm down
‘I can’t be having all this’ he said
And called King’s lot from town
Well all of the old kings’ horses and,
Of course, all of his men
Came trotting along to sort it out,
They did their best but then….
Well…Seeing as they hadn’t had their
Breakfast – O Woe betide –
They decided on an omelette with
Some bacon on the side
Ribs, though rarely seen
serve a function. Their purpose?
To hold it together.
Tie and tip hang down
as you cover me
like a safe canopy.
I move collar to lengthen
your shank, taking hold
of your ring and spreader.
Gripping your handle
hard, I try to
push it up; then
relaxing your frame,
collapsing your shank,
I secure you,
my umbrella.
]]>Don't wait
For the 28,
Don't waste your precious time
Scuffing heel around a vandalized timetable
This bus never runs on time.
Quicker to walk it and curse
When, near journey's end
28 crawls past
Like a hearse
At least you'll get to your destination
Better late than never
Than to be in bondage to a bus
Than to 28 be tethered
Yes I hate 28
That lame excuse for a bus
And all who drive her and repair her
May their brains turn to puss
The number of times 28 blurred past
Before I reached the stop.
The number of times she was absent for an hour
While I froze at the que top
28's a joke
In the worst possible taste,
Like to see her in the scrapyard
Rusted, smashed
-All laid to waste
Mike St. Mark
fear and loathing in London
thebogblog
As a man reaches his dotage
when the fire in his belly is gone
and the lead in his pencil turns to dust
he is not safe to be let out alone.
Old men are hunted by killer trousers,
the mere sight of male wrinklies arouses
this predatory beast
to seek a blood feast
of mature meat before it decomposes.
The waistband creeps steadily higher,
like a big cat stalking its prey.
Hobbled by arthritic stiffness
the oldsters cannot run away
as the trousers close in without any remorse
until the flies open up just like a shark's jaws
as upward they strain
seeking jugular vein
which they bite with irresistible force.
Day after day score of old men
are being eaten alive by rogue pants
whose ultimate aim is world domination.
We must act to stem their advance.
Action must be uncompromising
when you see an old fellow's pants rising,
don't leave Grandad alone,
deed him testosterone
supplement. Make him unappetizing.
Copyright © 2003, Ian R. Thorpe
]]>Walking sodium-drenched streets
Lined with converted houses
-Dark dungeons, grotty lairs.
There's a tiny dingy window,
Lit with a nearly shot
Forty watt,
Hanging,
Callan-swinging,
Way up there.
Inside lurks a shadowy figure
Lingering over a black crumby stove,
-Stubbled face, matted hair, encrusted dressing gown-
Pouring out beans on toast.
He's just a bedsit boy
Probably with a degree.
Smelly little Belling in the corner and
Down three flights for a pee
Scrutinizing Time Out's lonely hearts
For a left wing vegetarian soulmate
" Bedsit romantics need not apply"
He begins to masturbate
He's just a bedsit boy,
Probably with a degree,
UB40 Origami for a creased-up laugh and
Up two flights for a bath
Social highspot of the week
-Stained Y Fronts & Levis do a' spin
Down the local ratbag whizzy wash
He sits Sunday supping, and kneading his chin.
Bedsit boys are sighning on
Bedsit boys cry alone
Bedsit boys get a letter from mum,
Nearly every day.
The moon was shinging brightly,
the stars twinkled above,
Thomas The Earthworm smiled at his girl,
they were so much in love.
Thomas The Earthworm said to his girl
Your breath smells, not strong but slight;
"I had baked beans for lunch" she said,
you've been kissing the wong end all night.
For a mouth numbing experience
Come to Chilli Road -
Get some oral interference
To excite both young and old.
If your head's unsatisfactory
With teeth all badly holed
And they sense you are olfactory
Because your cavities aren't closed,
Then come to Heaton Dental Clinic
For some wonderful new teeth
Though I'm an old and ugly cynic
They gave me great relief.
This thing that i’m feeling; that my senses are stealing,
my mind it is reeling with what am i dealing
so intense that i’m squealing on the floor i am kneeling
while i humbly confront my fate.
While your attention obtaining a hold i am gaining
my emotions not feigning, my power is draining,
my resistance is waning my mind is straining;
to my confusion i hope you relate?
Intensely expressing i find i’m regressing;*
with my mind you are messing while no interest professing
my all i’m confessing* i find it distressing,
when will you my passion sate?
When you sign on at the DSS,
There's a lady working there
She's so full of compassion
That they call her Frigidaire.
She'll tear your claim up in your face.
She does not give a stuff
But on Friday night she's on the prowl
Looking for a bit of rough
She'll find some hairy-arsed fellow
Like so many nights before
and beg him have his way with her
And treat her like a whore
The politician lectures us
he talks about morality
Hard work and family values
And marital fidelity.
One law for us and one for him
It often is the case
That life forgives the indiscretions
Of those who win the race.
And when he visits Miss Flagella
(Just to relieve his stress)
He bravely takes his punishment
Wearing studded leather harness
And Pastor Penney, man of God
Used to preach in thundering voice
But now he's praying in his jail cell
Repenting sins involving choirboys
All these pillars of society
are no better than you and me
Underneath their thin facade
Are secret's that they'd rather hide
And they are not the only one's
Of that there is no doubt.
In all of lifes rich tapestry
There's a lot of it about.
* For non - English visitors; apart from being an item in every healthy diet, Brown Bread is London Rhyming slang for "dead".
AUTHOR'S NOTE
My home, Lancashire, it the Golbal Centre of Nostalgia. It seems to be a progressive disease. I’m willing to bet that young people who are now speaking “Estuary English” and jumping on every passing bandwagon will, by the time they are forty be saying “ nah think on" and Ah’ll gu’t’ fut'v R stairs.” I have worked in many places around Britain and never come across anywhere that is so obsessively “local.” The Lancashireists live in a total fantasy world, talking of "ow grand it wur when tha cud leave t'frunt doower oppen a' day." The truth was few people had front doors.
CONTRIBUTING TO POETS CORNERED:IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO JOIN IN THIS STRICTLY COMIC VERSE PROJECT LEAVE ME A MESSAGE SO THAT I CAN GET IN TOUCH. YOUR HUMOUR CAN BE WHACKY TO WRY, SATIRICAL TO SURREAL, ANY SUBJECT. YOUR STYLE CAN BE ANYTHING FROM LIMERICK TO FREE VERSE. THE ONLY RULE IS THAT IT IS FUNNY. CO - AUTHORS WILL BE JOINING LATER TO LIGHTEN MY LOAD.
]]>