poetry

Why the chicken crossed the road

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

I saw the chicken cross the road,
deep set in contemplation.
So I put my cap on and followed
to end all the speculation.

He ducked down an alleyway,
then suddenly stopped dead
below a sign that gently swayed,
upon which said The Gag’s Head.

On the door, he went knock-knock
“Who’s there?” “Me. Chicken”
He was quickly ushered in
and the plot began to thicken.

I peered in through the window
to get a better look at the place;
the first thing that caught my eye
was a horse with a long face.

The horse was looking at something
black and white and red all over,
while stroking a dog without a nose
who emitted a terrible odour.

Next to them was a big chimney,
smoking in front of his son,
and Pikachu who had missed the bus
because nobody poked him on.

An Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman
were all standing there in a group,
talking to an elephant in a fridge
and a fly doing breaststroke in soup.

The chicken ordered himself a beer
and began a night of boozing
to escape from a joke of a life
made not of his own choosing.

I looked on sadly for a little more
before deciding I’d better split;
the first rule of joke format club
is nobody talks about it.

Priorities

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

Oliver spent his days
fashioning word sculptures
hewn from the alabaster
of the English language,
using his imagination as a mallet
and his wit, a chisel.

His wife, Denise, sighed
and wished Oliver
would get a move on
in fixing the dripping tap
in the downstairs bathroom.

DESEMICOLONISATION

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

Following the Pedants’ Revolt,
it was clear the semi-colons had to go.
Nit-picking sticklers sickened
by the centuries of their abuse,
misuse and misplacement oversaw
their displacement overseas.

Sentenced to de-sentencing,
they found themselves deported
to semi-colonies where
they could do no further harm.
Related clauses were reunited
or sadly, in some cases, split up.

Occasionally rogue semi-colons
would still be found; in a newspaper;
an obscure monograph; a badly-written poem.
The rebel writers would live in fear
of the knock at the door and
the heavy boots of the grammar police.

Sometimes these authors would
suddenly disappear, mysteriously,
before they had even fini

The Tomes of Death

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

She died
at the side
of the road,
collapsed
from the weight
of her load.

On the paving flags,
tumbling out
from her bags
were three tomes
she’d tried
to carry home:
1001 Films You Must See,
Books You Must Read,
and Food You Must Try
Before You Die.

A Surprise Ending

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

We all have a book in us;
but only a few
have two.

Like Howard,
who devoured
The Selected Plays of Noel Coward
but to his surprise,
before his very eyes,
he saw his abdomen distend
and it came out Howard’s End.

Whither Spoons?

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

Whither the spoons
in my cutlery drawer?
Of spoons it is empty
but it used to hold four.

I checked the dishwasher,
and I scoured the floor
(then scoured it again,
just to be sure).

Whither the spoons
in my cutlery drawer?
Of knives and forks,
I have plenty in store.

But what use is a knife
except as a saw?
And what good is a fork
except as a claw?

Whither the spoons
in my cutlery drawer?
For scooping and stirring,
it’s the spoon I adore.

And should one day you look up
at the shallow-bowled moon,
please ponder the poet who perished
for want of a spoon.

Come away, come away, come away, my lover

Assorted Poems, Selected poems

Come away, come away, come away, my lover,
Come away to the cherry tree,
Where lovers sit and sing to each other
The songs of Gwen Stefani.

No.

Come away, come away, come away, my lover,
Come away to the apple tree,
Where lovers sit and discuss with each other
The best bits from Casualty.

Please go away.

Come away, come away, come away, my lover,
Come away to the old beech tree,
Where lovers sit and read to each other
The novels of Maeve Binchy.

You are freaking me out now. I’ve never even met you before.

Come away, come away, come away, my lover,
Come away to the poplar tree,
Where lovers sit and debate with each other
The fight scenes in Rocky III.

Right, I’m calling the police.

Run away, run away, run away, dear poet,
Run away to the sycamore tree,
Where poets hide in the thick, green foliage
To avoid captivity.