Poetry corner

The roughage grows dark – by Minty Boffle

Dark-doodle

The dark doodle

Once it may have been true to a point,
That the roughage was rough and the flample was goint,
But when looked down on it’s true that you see,
The flample was pample and goadingly droit

It once looked quite pretty when viewed in the dark,
The roughage, the pample, hung out in the park,
For sitting on swings and going all weeee,
But the droit came upon them and cut them a’grark

The pample did stample and the roughage did yank,
And across the sandpit the pair they did sank,
To rid them both ever of the nether-seen droit,
They pitched up a coodle and had a stout plank

But the roughage not covered beneath the pitch coodle,
Was exposed to the droit right on to his noodle,
And the pample did peek out a safe word to utter,
But the roughage was lost with it’s memory a doodle

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Poetry corner

You celestial thing you – by Jenny Hatswitch

That's not a moon!

Such a tease…

Oh moon why is it that,
At evening time you make me swoon,
When you are gibbous it sends me a flutter,
Your colour akin to some slightly off butter.

Your evening display quintessentially lunar,
After which I feel like having a bhuna,
I know that this sounds so strange to you moon,
But that you’re a rock to me is a boon.

So Moon, never leave me here all alone,
I wish for your heavenly body to be shown,
While I’m not quite sure that I’d be suicidal,
I do feel my mood swings are massively tidal.


Poetry corner

Bodily terrors – by Gloria Headtorch

An ear lobe

No….NO…..NOOOOOOAAARRRRGHHHH!

There are noses in my dreams,
Snorting and snuffling and tooting and bubbling,
There are noses in my dreams,
The sort of thing that makes sleep so troubling

Knees feature quite prominently too,
Clicking and clacking and knobbly and retching,
Although I’d wish for something new,
It’s knees and not even ones that are fetching

Don’t get me started on the kidneys,
They frighten me most and make waking a pleasure,
They make me sleep-punch my Sidney,
He says that it’s fine and to punch at my leisure

The lobes! The lobes! Oh Christ yes the lobes,
Most often lobes scare me half blind,
And while I’m worrying about them in droves,
Stalking eyelashes sneak from behind

So while my night terrors are full to the brim,
With feelings of dread and foreboding,
Body parts full of most murderous vim,
With arms on the side-lines still goading.


Poetry corner

The Soon Spoon – by Hilliard Ever-Soslightly

A deadly spoon

Precious…..

Oooo wasn’t it a bendy spoon,
It made light and yet made gloom,
It stayed all bendy until noon,
And then became so stiff

With a spoon like that you’d be the boss,
You would never suffer loss,
If you did you’d barely give a toss,
And should you care – you shouldn’t

When stiff it could become a sword,
When bendy makes you feel a Lord,
Your subjects ever overawed,
That spoon could crumble empires

Destroyer of worlds the spoon became,
Sheer power of it never tamed,
And you will never be the same,
Now you are in its thrall.

A weapon beyond the realms of man,
It weighs a tonne and yet a gram,
You borrowed it from your old Nan,
Part of her picnic hamper


Poetry Corner

Racing Mildred – by Norbert Twistgrip

Running track

Eye-level view of a post-pie nap.

Mildred was a bandy lass,
The speed that she could cover grass,
School sports days she was never passed,
Over hundred metres

One day she spied a nice pork pie,
Through the corner of her eye,
And truly could no more deny,
She fancied a bit of that

Fast forward on a decade more,
Mildred’s sitting on the floor,
Within her flat that she abhors,
Too heavy now to race

At first she never noticed signs,
The pies had slowed her record times,
Oft’ passed and lagging long behind,
With pork pie-induced stitches

The Commonwealth, Olympic games,
A distant dream with her to blame,
The bakery fed this hall of shame,
A sedentary life for Mildred

Mildred’s is a cautionary story,
If you yearn for running glory,
Avoid pies and you’ll be hunky-dory,
And probably sausage rolls


Poetry corner

No chance for David – By Dominic Falafel

Bobby EwingRags plainly borrowed not bought,
Or pressed,
His gusset was so clearly fraught,
Ill dressed

Shirt flailing against waist,
So tatty,
His sense of unpleasant taste,
Ratty

Tie like a broken snake,
Flaccid,
Over shoulder in his wake,
And vapid

Brogues cracked through soles are felt,
Tardy,
His gut restrained by tired belt,
Lardy

David thought this interview,
A shoo-in,
His threads have likely cast askew,
Bobby Ewing


Poetry corner

Flan was bought – by Wendy Bendy

Flan fun

Stan’s flan. No Jam.

I haven’t seen him,
Said the man,
The man,
That bought flan,

Not for weeks,
Said he who speaks,
For weeks,
He repeats

Tried the gym?
Said him,
Keeping trim?
Not like him

Flan was bought,
Without thought,
Special flan,
Bought by man

Flan with jam,
Made by Stan,
How convenient
That rhymes

I don’t like the man-bought flan,
I will not eat it Stan flan man