Month: April 2015

Roger’s Thesaurus

In order to grow, expand, widen
his lexicological corpus,
Roger bought, acquired, purchased
a synonymopedia, a thesaurus.

Soon, presently, without delay,
he no longer ran out of things to say,
speak, utter, express, articulate,
give voice to, pronounce, communicate.

This was all very well, fine, great,
wonderful, super, terrific
but his friends, mates, pals found him
boring, tedious, dull. Soporific.

So let this be a warning,
an omen, a sign, a premonition,
it’s all very well to show learning,
education, knowledge, erudition,
but here’s a suggestion, a hint,
a top tip, some advice,
don’t ever let it stop you
from being concise,

brief, short, clear, pithy,
succinct, compendious, to the point.


Twelve Haiku


Please choose the haiku
which applies the most to you.
Choose two get one free.


Subbuteo man.
Legs broken. Re-glued twice.
A fragile sadness.


A leaf, desolate,
wind-blown, stuck to the back of
Bruce Forsyth’s toupée.


A note left hanging
in the cold night air, dispatched
from a flugelhorn.


Unclaimed bag revolves
on a lonely carousel
A hopeless case.


Empty, vacant box
in someone else’s org chart.
Never to be filled.


Imperfect haiku,
starts off quite well but ends one
syllable short.


A tranquil puddle
into which splashes one of
Clarkson’s driving gloves.


A semi-colon
in a place where it really;
has no place to be.


Reality show
contestant on a journey
back home to Skegness.


A smell which lingers,
vaguely reminiscent of
Adrian Chiles’ socks.


The forlorn pathos
of an abandoned crossword
in a bin in Fife.


A bag of Quavers,
offering cheesy comfort
but steeped in staleness.


The betrayal, when it came,
was not unexpected.
Deep down I knew
you never liked my Scalextric.
You said it took up too much room.
The cars didn’t vroom.
Contributing factors, I assume.

Charity shops begin at home
and I tracked it down
three weeks later to Age Concern,
sandwiched between a Georgian tea urn
and some books by John Pilger.
The price: thirty coins of silver.

Whither the Linnet in the Birch Tree Yonder?

Whither the linnet
in the birch tree yonder?

For the linnet, I am fonder
than my mum was of her Honda
(which, incidentally, I also thought terrific).

Some cry
but I’m glad to say
this one has never gone away
unlike the linnet
which used to live in it.

Perhaps he’ll be back in a minute.

O mighty birch
grown from the humble acorn,
rarely the cause of arboreal scorn!
One should never besmirch
the magnificent birch!

O beautiful linnet
with mouth of beak
and wings of feather!
Was your name Dennis or Sarah
or Susan or Trevor?

Threep Cheep Thhhreeep.
Threep Cheep Thhhreeep Pyyonng.
No more will I hear your beautiful song.

But hark who is it that now comes along?
Why, the linnet is back
with flaps sure and strong!

Hang on, what’s that?
I’ve got this all wrong?
It seems my knowledge of trees
remains somewhat poor
and that’s not a proud birch
but a stupid sycamore.
And apparently
that’s not even a linnet.
It’s a chaffinch, you say,

Every Song on the Radio Reminds Me of You

Every song on the radio reminds me of you,

I hear Anarchy in the UK and think about the time
you established an anarcho-syndicalist commune and led
a bloody, but ultimately unsuccessful, uprising in Merthyr Tydfil.

Bohemian Rhapsody comes on and I remember
the episodic, integrated, free-flowing work you composed
whilst holidaying in the Czech Republic.

Like A Virgin reminds me of the day
you got your new Virgin Media TiVo box installed
and you touched it for the very first time.

I listen to I Am the Walrus and recall those stupid
bloody Tuesdays when you would sit on a cornflake
in your corporation t-shirt and wait for the van to come.

An Oasis song plays and I think about that wall
you used to have, which was not like any other wall,
the one that used to fill me with wonder and still does today.

Other memories fly to me across the radio waves.
Your strange and wide-ranging CV: a waitress in a cocktail bar,
private dancer, boxer, taxman, joker, thief, lineman for the county.

There was that time you laid your hat and declared it “home”,
and that party we went to with a special atmosphere,
the one when you kissed a girl and then let the dogs out.

It’s no wonder I still think about you;
you and your beautiful, bright, sexy, gypsy,
Betty Davis, brown, green, baby blue eyes.