Monday, July 30, 2012

CCCXLIX - The Black Dog

A brushed image by Zelko Nedic

Magpie Tales had the above image as a prompt.
"The Black Dog" is a common metaphor for depression.

The Black Dog.

Master! Master! Follow me,
I know the path quite well.
I will lead you to the dark side,
To the sooty doors of Hell.

Wretched dog, please leave me!
I don’t want your offered guide.
You lead me to the sulphurous pits
Where nothing good resides.

Master!  Master! Follow me!
It’s an easy path to find.
It’s always sloping downward
And you leave the sun behind.

Wretched dog, please leave me!
There’s no comfort in your words
You lure me to the gloomy place
Where nothing good occurs.

Master!  Master! Follow me!
I’ll lead you from your plight;
To escape from things that ail you
By slinking from the light.

Wretched dog, please leave me!
I beg you, go and do not stay.
While what you have entices me,
I must turn the other way.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Sunday, July 29, 2012

CCCXLVIII - Pas de Deux

 Red Dirt Girl posted a collection of photos of nude dancers (careful!).
dVerse had a prompt to write something including words from a foreign language.
Well, what was I to do?  It's obvious, really:

A lady who danced in the nude,
Was sweet and gracefully imbued.
The lead took his chance,
And invited her to dance,
And together they ‘Pas de Deux’ed

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

CCCXLVII - Black Magic

Poetry Jam had the prompt: "Do you believe in magic".

Black Magic

I don’t believe in witches,
I don’t believe in wands,
I don’t believe that princes
Became frogs on top of ponds.

I don’t believe in warlocks,
Nor in haunted towers,
I do believe in black cats,
But not with special powers.

I don’t believe in riding brooms,
I don’t believe in potions
I don’t believe in lucky charms
That prey on our emotions.

I don’t believe in mystic realms,
I don’t believe in trolls,
I don’t believe in any sort
Of psychic folderols.

Children always love to dream
Of fairy tales and wonder.
They can imagine warring gods,
Fighting in the thunder.

As they grow they come to learn,
How to think things through:
They still enjoy stories.
But they know that they’re not true.

But some adults still believe this stuff,
And worship someone higher,
And in their name can justify,
Burning witches on a fire.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Saturday, July 28, 2012

CCCXLVI - The Little Red Dress

Three Word Wednesday had a challenge to write something
incorporating the words 'cut', 'endanger' and 'hazard'.
Naturally, I chose to do a size 12 limerick.

If I was to hazard a guess,
I’d look rather strange in a  dress.
I wouldn’t cut it, you’d find,
And I’d endanger your mind
With images you’d rather repress.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Thursday, July 26, 2012

CCCXLV - The XXX Olympiad

This will be a progressive poem,
with verses added to as the games progress.

The Games of the Thirtieth Olympiad.


We’re just two days out from the start
Of the thirtieth Olympic campaign;
And Londoner’s, if they are smart,
Have rented their homes and gone to Spain.

The media pack are an enormous throng
But, bored with waiting for things to begin
Speculate on what things may go wrong
Or how many gold ‘their’ team will win.

The facilities, they wail, are incomplete,
The athletes are packing ‘too much belly’,
The taps are dripping, the food too sweet,
Quick!  Rush the scoop onto the telly!

One day to go, the suspense is growing,
Boris offers to sacrifice a worm, to stop the rain,
The torch goes to Buck House for a showing,
Strikes are on. And off.  And maybe on again.

A minor diplomatic brouhaha ensued
When North Korea was wrongly flagged,
But when they played, two goals accrued,
(It seems the defence zigged instead of zagged.)

The Opening Ceremony

The opening ceremony was full of glitz,
A theatre we’ve come to expect;
Woven together from historical bits,
Clichéd, but done to good effect.

Lizzie was there, with Mr Bond,
Dropped from above the din;
The entry of the teams dragged on and on,
I wish they too could be parachuted in.

The Games

Day One and the media still attacks
Swimmers and the body shape they’re gaining
But, perversely, then goes on to use Big Macs
As a measure of energy used in training.

Was Page 1 used for the opening of the Games?
For the kick-off of this festival of sports?
No, the lead was a swimmer, who strongly proclaims
“I’m not remotely interested in you ‘fat’ reports.”

A Letter to the Editor, boldly put and insisting
That the games stop wars, with sports replacing gun:
Looking at the recent casualty listings
The replacement is not a very effective one.

The Daily Refrain

The sports proper are underway at last
Favourites slump: outsiders grab the prize;
This is not how the script was cast
The media lament the nation’s demise.

Told to worship the new “heroes” of our tribe
(Though “idols” would be a better rendition)
The media produces reams of diatribe
And editorials demanding Royal Commissions.

Meanwhile, the competitors on the field
Struggle gamely towards a personal best.
A few will cheat and try to chemically yield
Results that can sneak past the doping test.

Sponsors are lurking in the wings,
To stand in the limelight of the winners,
Paying them to endorse all sorts of things
From electric socks to frozen TV dinners.

Repeat 17 times.

Halfway Update

Halfway through the wretched folderol
And my predictions are coming true;
The media is demanding heads to roll
Because we keep coming in at only two.

Seven billion people on this planet
And a silver for second is not enough;
The media weep, forgetting that they began it.
My unsympathetic response is ‘tough!”.

The Finish Line Approaches.

Thankfully we enter the last weekend,
A marketing marathon where everything sells.
The media now laments the money we spend
To "buy" each of our precious metals.

Prior, they had listed the 'guaranteed' gold,
But "we" Australians have managed but a fraction.
But win or lose, the athletes put me to shame,
As I slept through most of the action.

"We are only tenth, someone must be sacked"
Cry the headlines from the tabloid sleaze,
But they find some warm solace in the fact
That we did a little better than the Kiwis.

The Closing Ceremony

It was a giant ad for the UK brand
While endorsement deals were pocketed;
A fuzzy feeling spread across the land
And fireworks usage skyrocketed.

The media pack followed the ‘golden’ few,
With a brief and fawning largesse;
Ignoring those who were equally due:
But only had silver or less.


The stands are empty, the pack moved on,
The murmurs that Rio will fail have begun;
The stories of ‘Olympic heroics’ have gone
And the football returned to page one.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

CCCXLIV - Annoyances

Mama's Losin' It had the prompt 'List 10 things that make you angry'.
Well, I don't get angry so much, I get annoyed though.  Here a short list.
Some readers may notice similarities to a a song by Koko in The Mikado.
Some other readers may notice that Mama had a similar prompt four years ago
and marvel at the similarities in my approach then and now. 


I’ve been asked to clearly state those things that can annoy:
I've got a little list — I've got a little list
Of nasty little things whose departure I’d enjoy
And who never would be missed — who never would be missed!
There’s the people who sanitize everything in sight
And those who say you’re sexist when in fact you’re just polite
All people who say they can’t but they never even try
All people who say ‘me’ when they really should say ‘I”
And homeopaths, astrologers and Chinese herbalists
They'd none of 'em be missed — they'd none of 'em be missed!


He's got 'em on the list — he's got 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed — they'll none of 'em be missed.


There’s the disappointing President who uses flying drones
To create new terrorists – I’ve got him on the list.
And the marketer who rings me, at home upon my phone,
They never would be missed — they never would be missed!
Then there’s idiots who give a mean, sarcastic poke
And, if you should complain, say you cannot take a joke,
And the climate change deniers who stubbornly maintain
We can go on polluting endlessly and never feel the pain
And those religious aberrations, the fundamentalists
I don't think they’d be missed — I'm sure they’d not be missed!


He's got 'em on the list — he's got 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed — they'll none of 'em be missed.


And that pesky little character of jingoistic hype,
The fervid nationalist – I’ve got him on the list!
And all journalists and anchormen and any of their type
They'd none of 'em be missed — they'd none of 'em be missed.
And the people who talk over me, in a patronising way,
But, in the end, apparently have nothing much to say,
All footballers, without a neck, in skin tight Lycra shorts
And all those wacky folk who believe the UFO reports
And that darling of the media, the Olympic medalist,
I don't think they’d be missed — I'm sure they’d not be missed!


You may put 'em on the list — you may put 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed — they'll none of 'em be missed!

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery
With thanks to Gilbert & Sullivan.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

CCCXLIII - Connection

 Theme Thursday's prompt this week is 'Connections'.


“No man is an island, entire of itself” - -  John Donne

A warming smile,
A clarification,
A joke enjoyed,
An affirmation,
A shared event,
A furtive glance,
A happy greeting,
A verbal dance,
A gentle kiss,
A tender word,
A caring hug,
Emotion stirred.
A cheeky wink,
A conversation,
A passing touch,
An explanation.
Little pleasures,
Simply shown;
Quite impossible
To do alone.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

CCCXLII - Niches

One Single Impression has the topic “Niche”.
I had a number of takes on it:


First child has a clean slate
Alone and unencumbered;
It cherry-picks the learning curve
And masters words and numbers.

The next child sees the first one
So gifted, by all reports,
So heads off into other fields
And usually masters sports.

He sets his stand up in the street
To catch the passing trade.
There he produces brimming cups
Of home made lemonade.

He’s made a pile of money,
For he has them by the throat:
The lemonade he gives away
But sells them antidote.

You’ll find her on the streets,
It’s not lemonade she’s selling;
She charges by the hour
And shares a one-room dwelling.

It is a tough existence
But she has a certain skill.
As she tells her clients
She has a niche to fill.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Monday, July 23, 2012

CCCXLI - Flights of Fancy

Wild fancies danced in his head,
Until he set them down, to be read.
But he begged her profusely
To interpret them loosely:
“You worry too much”, she said.


© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Sunday, July 22, 2012

CCCXL - Feel Shade Tangle

Three Word Wednesday had a challenge to write something
with the words 'feel', 'shade' and 'tangle'.
Naturally, I chose to do a limerick.

A fellow was wooing a young maid,
On a soft grassy patch, in the shade.
In the tangle of hormones,
He could feel her warzones,
But that’s all he got, I’m afraid.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

CCCXXXIX - Treasure

Sunday Scribblings has the prompt ‘Treasure’.


Who can find a virtuous woman?
For her price is far above rubies.
Proverbs 31:10

Rubies are a most valued stone
With a place in any pirate’s treasure;
Salome’s navel harboured one
Which added to her pleasure.

The Bible tells us clearly that,
Despite what’s said by jewellers Tiffany,
A virtuous woman is worth more than rubies
But is silent on how many.

Being virtuous is an honourable thing,
Not startling so, but nice;
But if you want good value for your rubies:
Virtuosity will fetch a higher price.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

CCCXXXVIII - Fell on his face.

Mad Kane has a regular limerick challenge.
She provides the first line, the rest is up to us.

A fellow who fell on his face,
Was considered the family disgrace.
He was heard to mutter,
As he lay in the gutter,
"I feel more at home in this place".

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

CCCXXXVII - Cereal Offender

This poem grew out of the previous one on scones.
What, I wondered, would I reply if a lady who read
the first poem asked me if she was a scone? 

Cereal Offender

“OK, so tell me now, am I a scone?”
The voice was honeyed but dripped
With threat of traps, of spike-filled pits
Of trip wires and of arrows, sharp flint tipped.

“OK, so tell me now, am I a scone?”
“You are a scone of the sweetest kind!
I’d cover you with cream and jam
And them eat you, if you didn’t mind!”

She smiled a smile of a satisfied sort,
He breathed and smiled with some relief;
Comparing women to the cereal world
Is a shortcut to a life of grief.

“Dumpling” and Pudding” can be used,
With the saucy permission lovers give,
But only call her a crumpet to her face
If you’ve lost the will to live.

Insurance companies will disown you
If you tell a lady she’s a tart.
There’s a fine-print cancellation clause
For when good sense departs.

There are other words the boys will use:
Cheesecake, muffin, roll and trifle.
But it’s not wise to use them with a lady
Who has access to a rifle.

So, my lads, heed my advice,
And avoid the language of the baker.
It is not flour but flowers you need,
So find some, now, to take her.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Saturday, July 21, 2012

CCCXXXVI - Ode to an In-flight Scone.

I went to Sydney yesterday, on business.
The in-flight snack left something to be desired.

Ode to an In-flight Scone

Scones are warm, scones are fluffy,
Scones are served with jams and creams.
Scones are fresh and sweet delights,
Like the lover of your dreams.

The in-flight snack was none of this,
In plastic tray and cellophane.
Dispensed like food-aid to the poor
Who sat in rows upon the plane.

An off-white, cold, amorphous block
That crumbled as you spread the jam,
This thing was no more a scone
Than a cheap hamburger is a ham.

The cream was frozen, for some reason,
And also crumbled as I spread it.
If this is the future of inflight fare,
You have good reason now to dread it.

Scones are supposed to be hot and steamy,
And remind us of some sensuous creature.
The little briquette upon my flight
Reminded me of my grade five teacher.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Friday, July 20, 2012

CCCXXXV - Starting to rue.

Mad Kane has a regular limerick challenge.
She provides the first line, the rest is up to us.

A fellow was starting to rue
His decision to visit Peru.
It wasn’t the scenery,
It was the odd cuisinery:
Alpaca soup and Guinea-Pig stew.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Repost - The Carnival

Poets United has the prompt 'Carnival'.
Here's one I prepared earlier:

The Carnival


The air is thick with smells and squeals
Of food and kids and Ferris wheels
There are spruikers, dodgems, chips and stalls
Ghost trains, drinks and mirrored halls.
Gypsies who can read your mind
And snake oil vendors, of the finest kind.
From the outside, you can sense excitement
Oozing from every stall and bright tent.

Come in, come in, you wont regret it!
Life will depress you, if you let it,
Look! Over there, performing fleas!

Oh Daddy, Daddy, can we please?

Escape from life, leave the gloom behind?
Come kids, let’s go see what we can find!
But we must be away by ten, at latest.

Yea for Daddy! You are the greatest!

Good Sir, let me read your palms

Your end is written in the Psalms!

Get some donuts while they’re hot!
Or perhaps a beer would hit the spot?

A beer and two donuts, the hot jam ones.
And a sausage in one of those long buns.
Actually, I think I’ll have a second beer.

Balloons, balloons, get your balloons here!
Here kids, let me twist it into a hat
Or would you prefer a dog or a cat?

Hello, big boy, how can I please you?
Come to my tent and let me squeeze you!
Don’t worry, Bruno, here, will mind the brats!

No, thanks. Hey kids, look! Dancing rats!

Oh yuck! That’s vile. How truly gross.
Dad! Dad! Don’t get so close!
Oh, Dad! Can we go on that spinning ride?

Will you keep your food inside?
I well remember the last time, honey;
Dinner was a waste of money.

Hey, show your kids you are a man!
Make the bell ring—if you can!

Go Dad go! Give it a good whack, not a token!
Oh—never mind, it’s probably broken.

Oh look, it’s late, the time has flown,
One last ride then we must head home.
Or would you like to try out the guns?

It’s not fair, we are having fun!
We want to stay until we win a hat.

I knew they were going to tell you that.
Children are the great negotiators!

Repent now, prepare to meet your maker!

Come kids, you didn’t listen to what I said,
It’s time I got you home to bed.


The last folk leave, the night is late,
The spruiker shuts and locks the gate
The stoves are cold, they’ve cut the lights
The music’s gone and the place is quiet
The make-up’s off, the splendor shed
A drink is opened, a paper’s read.
In the caravans around the site
Ordinary people embrace the night.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

CCCXXXIV - The Tears of Remorse

Mad Kane had a limerick challenge starting with the line "A fellow was starting to rue'. 
I sort of took a detour and ended up somewhere else than a limerick.  But I am not sorry.

The Tears of Remorse

The tears of remorse are bitter and cold,
They fall like hail on the green;
The tears of remorse run down your cheeks
As you ponder what might have been.

The tears of remorse are full of salt
That comes from your waves of grief;
The tears of remorse are an outward sign
Of a wayward inner belief.

The tears of remorse are to no avail,
They reflect, not ease, the pain;
The tears of remorse are hope, misplaced,
As you would make the same choices again.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Repost - To a friend of many names

One Single Impression has a prompt 'Friend'.  
I wrote this many years ago, while working in Stockton-on-Tees, UK.
It was my first attempt at an (almost) free-form poem..

To a friend of many names.

You touched me once,
In passing;
You probably don't remember,
But I recall it well.

You touched me once,
In passing,
And as you continued on your way
Left a special imprint,
A mark upon the clay that you
And others like you
Have moulded into me.
I reacted to your presence,
To your coming and your going,
With suble little changes
That only I can see.
You shaped my thoughts and standards
Then continued moving on;
Probably never knowing
That I could see where you had been
Long after you had gone.

Yes, you touched me once.

In passing.

You probably don't remember
But I recall it well.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

CCCXXXIII - The French Connection

dVerse prompts us for a poem to celebrate Bastille Day, July 14th.

The French Connection

In school, the French got scant attention,
Only a few battles got much of a mention,
But it seems the French have been jumping
Since King Harry gave them a thumping.

They’ve brought the frog out of the pond 
And denim is now the ‘fabric du monde’.
They invented latex for the Bourgeoisie
And, for the kinky poor, made PVC.

They made the letter-box that we’re now all using
But not the French Letter, which I find amusing.
While they didn’t discover how to stop babies
They did discover how to stop rabies.

They invented the stethoscope to hear the heart
And little black dresses to make it start.
They made bayonets that would then perforate it
And blood transfusions to re-oxygenate it.

They invented the bra, to help breasts park,
And Braille, to help find it in the dark.
They invented the bikini, but only barely,
And Cartesian Coordinates, rather squarely.

They invented Aspirin, or so it’s said,
For those pains of the aching head.
If that didn’t work, they invented codeine.
Or, for the ultimate headache, the guillotine.

The food processor they claim as theirs
And baguettes, to eat with camemberts,
And margarine to make arteries thicken
And rude sounding meals, made of chicken.

They discovered radiation and radium (specific)
Then spread it all over the South Pacific.
They also claim the first manned plane flight
But no-one told the brothers Wright.

They created Moulin Rouge and Folies Bergère
Then invented Neons to lead you there.
There’s artificial silk on the chorus girls,
There’s hairdryers for their bouncing curls,
Other bodily bits also bounce a lot,
(They invented the bra but apparently forgot).

They invented Roulette, to take your rent,
And probability theory to show where it went.
The Metric system is a gift that lingers,
A boon to people with just ten fingers.

The International Olympic Committee
Forbids playing Petanque, which is a pity.
Both are French in their extraction
And both have a certain back-handed action.

They invented bicycles, perhaps by chance,
And then invented the Tour du France.
To make bike wheels spin, with less wearing,
They invented the balls to go in the bearings.

Bagpipes, oboes and flintlock guns,
Crepes, who can forget the orange ones?,
Metronomes, scooters and coffee percolated,
Aqualungs, taxies and car tyres, inflated.

There are more things I could list
But I’m sure there would be some I’d miss.
So, to the French, I just say “Encore!”
“You’ve come a long way since Agincourt!”.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Thursday, July 12, 2012

CCCXXXII - A Fireside Question

Theme Thurday had the topic "Inspiring things".

A Fireside Question

The writer and his inner muse
Were sitting by a fire;
He was sipping Pinot Noir
She was plucking at a lyre.
“Tell me Sir” she asked at last
“What kind of things inspire?”

“You’re asking me what kinds of things
Encourage me to write?
They are many and quite varied,
Some appall and some delight.
There really is no set pattern
But I’ll list a few tonight:

A seed pushing up toward the sun,
A lover’s forlorn sigh,
A sunrise on a balmy morn,
A perfect lemon pie,
A white dove taking to the air,
A silky inner thigh.

The laugh of folk in happy times,
Or the darkness of the night.
The power of a steam train,
A flock of geese in flight,
A spider’s web, bedecked with dew,
A sense of what is right.

The complexities of existence,
The beauty of a tree;
The excitement of a puppy,
A steaming cup of tea;
A ball of multi-coloured twine
A ship upon the sea.

But it’s pointless to extend the list,
I’ve mentioned just a few.
Inspiration is a capricious beast,
And anything will do.
There’s no need to search it out,
As it will come to you.”

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

CCCXXXI - Mine was worserer.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away.  
But some people just need a bigger apple.
Any resemblance to any person, living,
dead or even imaginary, is purely coincidental.

Mine was worserer.
A dialogue.

Hi!  Good morning, how are you?  You’ve been away a while,
How have you been?

I’ve was really sick, pretty vile, but I am better now, however…

I know exactly what you mean, I have been sick too! 
It was awful.  Never been so crook.  Never!

There were three days there where I couldn’t move from bed and I…

Me too! Yes! It was terrible.  Stuck in bed, just like you said!
I really wished that I would die!

Those days have just vanished from my life!  They…

I know!  I know!  It was just ghastly. 
It took years off my life.  I felt I was dead! 
I felt I was trapped in my bed for weeks and weeks.

It annoys me that I had had the flu shots. 
It doesn’t seem right that I still got sick from...

I know, you’re right! I know exactly what you mean. 
I had the flu, rabies, meningococcal, all the heps and even tetanus,
Cholera and Yellow fever and I thought it would do the trick but
Wham! out like a light, I was.  Out like a light!

And I could hardly eat anything at all.  Just a little dry toast with...

Yeah, yeah, me too!  Just like you said.  God, the amount of stuff
I couldn’t eat would feed a small West Coast African village. 
Absolutely knackered I was. I couldn’t face a single thing.
Even the smell of water made me ill.

Well you certainly seemed to have been to Hell and back again. 
How are you now?

Oh, OK, I suppose.  I can’t complain.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Monday, July 09, 2012

CCCXXX - Occupational Skills

Mad Kane has a regular limerick challenge.
She provides the first line, the rest is up to us.

A butcher was proud of his skill
And the number of sausages he’d fill
He was eventually arrested
When his sausages were tested
And found their meat content was nil.

A dentist was proud of his skill
With probes and high pressure drill,
With his precision flossing,
And his peppermint washing,
But mostly he was proud of his bill.

A chemist was proud of his skill
To dispense both potion and pill.
But it was all a great lurk,
The stuff didn’t work:
It was the price that made you feel ill.

A weightlifter was proud of his skill
But at night wore dresses of twill,
Along with stocking and pearls,
He went out with the girls,
In search of somebody to thrill.

A bootlegger was proud of his skill
And would daily spit-polish his still.
But he had to regret
That he lit a cigarette
And his body blown over the hill.

A cyclist was proud of his skill
But was popping prohibited pills.
When positively swabbed,
“I’m sorry” he sobbed,
But from there he kept going downhill.

A harlot was proud of her skill
With men who have dreams to fulfill.
“Their wives have stopped heeding
Their base carnal pleading,
So they are happy to find someone who will.”

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Sunday, July 08, 2012

CCCXXIX - Proud of a Skill

Mad Kane has a regular limerick challenge.
She provides the first line, the rest is up to us.

 A whale was proud of its skill
To filter the ocean of krill.
It did nothing else at all
Because the things are so small
And took ages for it’s stomach to fill.

A woman was proud of her skill
For maintaining her Venus’ hill.
To assist in the chore,
The perfume was Dior,
But the landscaping came from Brazil.

A fellow was proud of his skill
To give all the women a thrill.
But unbeknownst to him,
When the lights were dim,
A vibrator had a role to fulfill.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery


While we are on bodily functions themes...

The prune

A neglected poor thing is the prune,
And open to a most basic lampoon.
Some folk are naïve:
One prune, they believe
Will result some volcanic pooin’.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

CCCXXVII - C is for ?

In the comment section, a few posts back, Red Dirt Girl asked
"Is there ANY subject you won't or can't write a poem about?"
In response to such questions from others in the past
I have written about plug-holes and paperclips. 

But, never one to duck a challenge, I looked around for something a bit different.

The previous week I had been listening to a podcast on euphemisms and the observation
that the Victorians used 'The Monosyllable" as a euphemism
for that other over-used euphemism, cunt, amused me.
Here is the inevitable outcome:

C is for…?
The English language has oodles of words:
From the Greek, Latin, French, and others, inter alia.
The amazing thing is that several hundred of them
Relate solely to the female genitalia.

Some of them are very twee, verging on the silly.
While others are just cold and hard and blunt.
In the States, some show nomadic traits:
Fanny is the rear while, elsewhere, it is still the front.

The Victorians referred to ‘the monosyllable’
For what is now known as the C-word.
So, now we have a euphemism for a euphemism,
But no-one has any doubts of what is so inferred.

I find it odd that the vagina is so well served,
With euphemistic and needless folderol,
While other, much more useful words,
As far as I can tell, cannot be found at all.

I have, for example, sat late into the night,
Thumbing the Oxford Dictionary (Shorter),
After a word for the ring left on a table
By the wet bottom of a glass of water.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Friday, July 06, 2012

CCCXXVI - Nice Melons

The above picture, or an unfiddled version of it, is from Lola's Loves

A woman with a lovely round pair
Lamented that men would just stare
At her mammary swellin’s
And ignore the sweet melons
She had brought to the Farmer’s Fair.

A woman with a lovely round pair
Would drive the young men to despair
By displaying her clutch
But forbidding them to touch;
A tactic they considered unfair.

A girl who was a hit with the guys,
Had melons of a wonderful size.
“The queue of male friends
Goes on and never ends
But none of them look at my eyes”.

A harlot used melons to tease,
Offering the men a free squeeze.
With their interest ascending
She offered happy endings
But for that she charged higher fees.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Wednesday, July 04, 2012

CCCXXV - Uncertainty

Theme Thurday had the topic "Life's Uncertainties".
I thought I would try something a little different to my normal style.
It was fun and hardly hurt at all.


Nothing  is certain. 
Not even the end of this poem is known
at this point in writing. 
But, on the other hand, it has been shown
that people demand, insist even, on a definitive sign,
a sign of some sort;
horoscopes, gypsies, a minister who can present a heavenly report,
that will provide comfort, however slim,
and a rail to hold as they venture timidly, as a flock,
along the slippery boardwalks of life, as we know it, Jim. 
Life is a seemingly endless spiral of highs and lows that mark
the unpredictability of existence on this unbalanced, unsettled,
over settled, concrete and metalled, lump of wet rock.

Serendipity shadows our steps. 
The wayward car that runs the lights. 
The chance meetings, right or wrong. 
The advert seen in a paper, seldom read. 
The meaningful glance across the room, from the lady in the red dress. 
Abnormalities, genetic or achieved without SPF25. 
A wayward lightning strike, much more likely than lottery largess.  
But still possible, none the less.
The decision to take eight-oh-five instead of a train five minutes later. 
All small variables in our travels through the smoky and veiled corridors
of time and space that make up our day.

But the truth remains: nothing is certain.
Would you really want it any other way?


© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Monday, July 02, 2012

CCCXXIV - Multi 'Tudes

Mad Kane has a regular limerick challenge.
She provides the first line, the rest is up to us.

A moody young woman with ‘tude
Went out on a yacht that was crewed
By six randy guys
Who opened her eyes
To the pleasures of being pursued.

A moody young woman with ‘tude
Felt she was ready for a brood.
She preferred the refined,
But attracted the wrong kind,
So, in the end, she only got screwed.
A moody young woman with ‘tude
Refused to be seen in the nude.
On the night of her wedding,
When it came to the bedding,
The lights were discretely subdued.

A moody young woman with ‘tude
Requested her buttock tattooed
With advice to her ex,
And all of his sex:
I’d tell you but it’s really too crude.

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

Sunday, July 01, 2012

CCCXXIII - The New Dawn

The Mad Monk, leader of the Abbott's Gate Doomsday cult,
predicted the end of civilised life as we know it
once the so called ‘Carbon Tax’ came into force. 
It started today.  No sign of the Apocalypse yet.

The New Dawn

The sun rose this morning.
It caught me by surprise.
The Tories had been warning
That clouds would fill the skies,
That civilization would be over,
That the economy would implode,
That the good times in the clover
Would become a misery, a la mode.

The sun rose this morning.
The birds seemed unconcerned,
A few were even yawning
As if they wished the day adjourned.
No horsemen of the Apocalypse
Were riding ‘cross the skies;
Nor did I have to come to grips
With lost soul's tormented cries.

The sun rose this morning.
They had told me that it wouldn’t.
The sun rose this morning.
They had told me that it shouldn’t.
The sun rose this morning.
And lit the morning skies.
The sun rose this morning.
Was it all a pack of lies?

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery

CCCXXII - Intersections

dVerse had the topic 'Button'.
Curiously, yesterday I found a button, 
in the middle of Camberwell Junction.


I found a button yesterday,
On a busy intersection.
Big and black and with four holes:
A simplicity but with perfection.

As we go about our daily lives,
We all drop ‘button’s, or some such,
And be it a word, a deed or thing,
Never know what lives we touch.

Now, somewhere, with a flapping coat,
A lady walks the city…
A piece of her is on my desk;
I wonder if she’s pretty?

© 2012   J Cosmo Newbery