Month: September 2015

This is one of those poems without any rhymes

This is one of those poems
without any rhymes,
like the kind you may read
in the Sunday TimesTelegraph.

For the real poet, you see,
rhyme’s deleterious,
when you want to be seen
as poignant and seriousprofound.

Rhyming is childish and trivial;
it smacks of the frivolous.
But I’ll throw in some half-rhymes
of which you may be obliviousignorant.

This is also one of those poems
that ends with a metaphorsimile,
like the silence of writing paper,
untouched in the letter drawer.

You bagged all the seats

You bagged all the seats
and created a buffer zone
out of all that you own.

For the rest of the carriage,
it was a marriage
of inconvenience.

Your stacked-up stockpiles
forced us into the aisles,
like unwanted children

from your luggage love-in.
You, ignorant of those who queued,
were sandbagged in solitude.

Maybe this is all unfair
and there are good reasons
to have your belongings there.

Perhaps, there was a lack
of space on the rack,
or your knapsack was having a nap.

Or did your bags house vital information,
which, if in the wrong hands,
might bring down Our Great Nation?

Are you a tropical disease carrier,
who, to prevent further cases,
built the Great Big Bag Barrier?

Or are you a crusader
for luggage liberty and equality?
Bags have rights like you and me.

Or, on reflection,
perhaps, it is that
you are simply
a twat.



Broken down?
Only a hard shoulder to cry on?
Reach not for the RAC or the Samaritans.

Minds and machinery mended.
A sonnet will be pinned softly
to your bonnet.


Injured at work?
Crushed by falling scaffolding
or the inbox ennui of office life?

You may be entitled to
an Ode to Compensation.


At death’s door?
Failing fast in your hospital bed?
No friends or family to comfort you?

The poet will arrive at turtleneck speed
to deliver a sweet, sweet eulogy
at your funeral.


£10 a poem.
Please add 50p for extras*

*Extras include rhyme, scansion,
and profound insights into the human condition.