Category: poetry

Originality

It’s a pity Otis Cutbush
wasn’t here to see the frog
that came leaping through the window
and landed on the dog.

Such a sight is rare indeed,
a Frog and Dog Alignment.
Otis could have used it
for his poetry assignment.

Poetry is full of frogs
and dogs are ten-a-penny,
but poems that combine the two?
I can’t think of any.

— ’Scuse me, Mr Poet,
but I simply can’t agree:
there’s a new one out by Twemlow,
called ‘Originality’.


 

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Morning call

Morning, like a burglar,
crept into my head.
He shone his torch about a bit
and then he stood and said:

‘Get up, you lazy bastard,
and feel the joy of life!
Grab it by the twemlows
as if it was your wife!’

But unbeknownst to Morning,
I had a better plan:
I kicked him in the pilbeams
as if he was a man.

With Morning doubled up in pain,
I slunk back into bed.
I’ve got all the life I’ll ever need,
right here in my head.


 

Journey’s end

‘Are we there yet?’ said the twins,
as we drove through Macclesfield.

‘Are we there yet?’ said the twins,
as we reached North Weald.

‘Are we there yet?’ said the twins,
as we neared the old airfield.

I stopped the car and dug a hole,
big enough for two:
‘Not quite there yet,
but soon.’


The rebel

Come now, Master Shadbolt,
that isn’t what I meant,
when I said ‘Stand up for freedom
and defy the government’.

What good is stealing pennies
from old beldams in the street,
and terrorizing kiddies
when you pinch their bags of sweets?

You gotta shoot the beldams first,
then string up all the kids.
That’s the only way they’ll ever learn
what true rebellion is.


A writer’s complaint

Leroy Spurtz has the kind of name
you’d find in the Olympics,
and yet the crazy bastard
went and studied astrophysics.

I had him down for greatness
on the parallel bars,
instead of which he wastes his time
gazing at the stars.

What’s the point?, I ask myself,
of this here writing game,
when the characters I dream up
just treat me with disdain?


Twemlow rising

Almost a full house tonight
for Twemlow’s one-man show
— not bad for a Wednesday,
and Bob Dylan live next door.

He opens with a dance routine,
then sashays into mime.
His ‘Bulldog in a Bottle’
gets ’em every time.

So take your prize, Bob Dylan,
enjoy it while you can.
Twemlow’s star is on the rise,
the new tambourine man.


 

Love & like

I’ve noticed that if I use the word love in a poem, I get a lot more ‘Likes’ from readers.

So here goes:

Oh baby, how I love you,
as a bullfrog loves a pond.
Immerse me in your beauty,
let me drown in love’s sweet bond.

The canopy of heaven
can’t do justice to your charms.
Only I can do that,
when I hold you in my arms.

Counting starts …. Now!