‘Sod off!’ to NaPoWriMo

I’m so glad April’s over soon;

I’m sick of writing rhymes.

I’m very keen to get to May

And more relaxing times.

No stressing over metre

Or assonance or scan.

With odes to write by close of day

And wond’ring if I can.

I’m so glad April’s over soon;

It will be a relief.

This constant search for topics

Has been causing me such grief.

A funny one on one day,

A sad one, the day after.

My poor emotions swinging ‘twixt

Extremes of tears and laughter.

I’m so glad April’s over soon

So I can rest my brain.

The effort of a daily post

Has caused me quite a strain.

I’m not an expert writer;

I try, but what do I know?

That’s why I’m happy I can say

“Sod off!” to NaPoWriMo!

Imperfect Sonnet

They pulled apart my childhood brick by brick.

Replaced it with an edifice of glass,

Or sometimes steel or highly polished stone.

Assured me that this new design would last.

They changed the roads until the way was lost,

And signposts that I knew meant nothing more.

The landmarks that once helped me navigate

Reduced to photographs, labelled ‘before’.

But now I see the new torn down as well,

Its modern gleam no armour, no defence,

Against the cries of “Build us more and more!”

The clamour for elaborate pretense.

Trust nothing but the pictures that you find,

Imperfectly preserved inside your mind.

The Animal Pun Poem

Behold the bird, how still he sits

Outside in many weathers.

Such trivia as rain and wind

Will ruffle not his feathers.

Behold the sleepy pussy cat,

Reflecting, as he ought,

On thorough cleaning of his claws,

They give him paws for thought.

Behold the thrifty tortoise

As his spending causes doubt.

He fails to see the wisdom of

The trend for shelling out.

Behold the mighty elephant,

Most popular of all.

As every time you see him

He’s receiving a trunk call.

Behold the spawning salmon.

Just watch him jump and go,

He hopes to line his offspring

In a little fishy roe.

Behold the yappy little pup

Pretending to be tough.

But really he is scared of everything

Which can be rather ruff.

Behold the cheeky chimpanzees,

In trousers, shoes and sweaters.

The only reason for these clothes

Is just to ape their betters.


By the Gate

I saw him hang his head again today,

So as to keep his face from those around.

As usual, he had nothing much to say;

Such words as he might think can ride no sound.

If only he had had a taste of trust,

Perhaps he wouldn’t build up such a wall.

For thoughts as dark as he’s been keeping must

Be kept out of the consciousness of all.

He lives by rules that hint at hidden strength,

So arbitrary, few could second guess

How much he’d fight to keep them; to what length

He’d go to keep his promise, nothing less.

I saw him by the gate again tonight;

One foot in either world, one troubled mind,

Still struggling, still putting up a fight;

Unravelling as fast as he can wind.

Brain of Glass (To the tune of Heart of Glass and with apologies to Blondie)

Nigel Farage is a bit of an ass!

Think it’s because he’s got a brain of glass.

Racists and sexists, that’s all that he’s got!

Says that he’s different, but really he’s not!

UKIP don’t seem to have much of a heart!

Look at the breastfeeding fuss for a start!

It seems like they always have something to say.

But all of it’s crap.  Wish they’d go away.

All the time

Nigel’s in the pub and he’s just feeling fine,

Making out his life is just like yours or mine.

But he’s fooling no-one with his act, in fact

We know he’s full of crap

UKIP don’t seem to have much of a brain!

Think that the gays caused a problem with rain.

Racists and sexists, that’s all that they’ve got.

Think they’re so special, but really they’re not!

They’re so dim!

They suck up to Nigel and look up to him,

Though he can’t accept their chances are quite slim

Of ever holding power, yeah.

Yeah, run and hide!  No voting for the mad far right!

Nigel Farage is a bit of an ass!

Think it’s because he’s got a brain of glass.

Racists and sexists, that’s all that he’s got!

Says that he’s different, but really he’s not!


From the ether, she emerges, with her beauty, clean and light,

Tormenting you, as though there is no cost.

You know she doesn’t love you, yet you feel some day she might.

The world looks on and knows that you are lost.

From her tower, she looks down on you and sees you as you are,

Not a flicker of desire will reach her eyes.

You fail to see that you will always worship from afar.

The world looks on and knows you’re wrapped in lies.

You talk as though you’re equals, but she’s miles ahead of you

She knows that she can keep you on a rope.

You think her flirting means something, as fools will often do.

The world looks on and knows there is no hope.

From the ether she emerges and you see that she’s sublime,

Every atom of your reason is now gone.

You feel as though she wants you up beside her for all time.

The world looks on and knows you’re not the one.


I wish I had a talent

I wish I had knack

For something really special.

It’s something that I lack.

I’ll never sing an aria,

I’ll never lead a show.

If I began to sing a song

The audience would go.

I’d love to paint a picture

Or carve a bas relief,

But any art I’ve ever tried

Has been beyond belief.

My subjects’ eyes are wonky;

I can’t say that I’m happy.

I’d call myself a Cubist

But I’d say you’d call me crappy.

I tried to learn an instrument;

I started with the cello,

But the noises that I got from it

Harshed everybody’s mellow.

I bought myself a banjo

But no matter how I pluck,

I somehow always manage

To absolutely suck.

I’d love to write a story

That’d just fly off the shelves,

Before you’d bother reading mine

You’d write them for yourselves.

I could always write some poetry

And dabble with some rhyming,

But, sadly, I have poor control

Over my style, my vocabulary and especially my timing!!

I wish I had a talent.

I wish I had a flair.

So many people have them;

It really isn’t fair!

I may not be an superstar

With a talent of my own.

But if there’s one thing that I know

It’s how to have a moan!


Can I build a bridge from here to there?

Piling regrets, missed chances into an arch,

Filling the gaps with careless words or deeds.

How strong would such a structure be?


Can I send a scout from here to there?

Testing the ground for soundness under foot,

Laying a trail where I might follow on.

How safe would such a mission be?


Can I send my voice from here to there?

Saying the words that hesitation stole,

Seeking an ear wherein they’ll tell their tale.

How clear would such oration be?


Can I call you back from there to here?

Just for a day, an hour, like those we had,

Filling the time with laughter and with love.

How sweet would such an instant be?

Sporty Me!

I’ll never be an athlete,

I’ve left it rather late.

I couldn’t have been anyway,

It’s clearly not my fate.

I’d never make a runner

Who pounds the lonely street.

I barely have control over

My large ungainly feet.

I couldn’t be a cyclist,

Careering round the drome;

I’d only do one circuit

Then turn the wheels to home.

I couldn’t be a gymnast

And flip across the mat,

Especially in Lycra as

It won’t conceal my fat.

I couldn’t be a swimmer,

I can’t perfect a stroke

And tend to swallow as I swim,

Which causes me to choke.

You’ll never find me leaping

About a tennis court.

My only hope is if they say

That sarcasm’s a sport.


Burnished drops hang on the wind’s own words,
Most aware of their perfection.
Landing softly on the wings of birds,
Gazing on their own reflection.

All along the lengthy winding way,
Faces turn to garner favours,
At the closing of another day,
As the bright horizon wavers.

And the story nears a certain close;
One of joy or one of sorrow.
Who can tell for sure, since no-one knows,
What the tale will be tomorrow?

Burnished drops hang on the wind’s own words
As the sun recedes in beauty,
Bringing forth the blissful silken night
Ready to perform her duty.