Wednesday, 19 February 2014
Twenty poets at the gate
all ready for the off.
The flag is down - they're on their way
o'er hedge and water trough.
Rushing, jostling, flailing pens,
striking with their ipads
whilst galloping in meter
and kicking other's gonads.
But look - here comes a cliché trap:
and five have fallen in!
Hard to miss it in the rush,
the rampage and the din.
Their glasses sure are misting up,
their corduroy is askew!
One middle aged librarian
has eschewed her comfy shoes!
Two furlongs left to trouble them
they're sweating badly now
the bardic perspiration
just gushing from their brow.
And as they round the final bend
all looking for a novel thought -
who knew that Poet Racing
could be such thrilling sport?
Sunday, 2 February 2014
I slipped a word in when
he wouldn't notice it at all.
Subtle. Quick. Kinda mean.
Only a small word. But then
aren't all words pretty small?
In the old 'Grand Scheme'.
The word was fused to detonate
as he closed his eyes to snooze
after dinner, at half past eight.
BANG! - all wordy hell broke loose.
People screamed, crowds parted,
the doctors arrived in a rush..
The Queen sighed, the Pope farted:
No use. His brains were addled, mush.
So why am I confessing this?
What harvest can I hope to reap?
Why should I even bother you..?
If you start nodding off to sleep,
after dinner as some folk do,
and you hear a little clicking...
That's it! I've put a word in you -
and the detonator's ticking.
First published in Poetry Island Anthology 5/14