CLXXXXIII - A little capricious nonsense.

.

Susan, at Stoney River has a micro-fiction challenge where you must
write a short story in 140 characters or less. (Is this a Twitter thing?).
Anyway, today's prompt was a photo of a goat (above).
140 characters just cries out for a limerick.

A goat who answered to Billy,

Lived in a field that was flat, not hilly.

To survey his estate

He climbed on a crate
,
Unaware that he really looked silly.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXXII - A Sound Choice

.

One Minute Writer had a topic "Sound"
"Describe the most beautiful sound you've ever heard."

A Sound Choice

There’s the infant that giggles with glee;
There the brook that burbles away;
There’s the bird that sings in the tree;
There’s the forest at the break of day.

There’s Mozart, when played by a quartet;
There’s the buzz of a crowd at a show;
There’s the wave that pummel a shore wet;
There’s sweet nothings, whispered sultry and low.

There’s friends who knock at your door;
There’s the silence when the radio stops;
There’s the dinner guest asking for more;
There the sound when the wine cork pops.

There’s the car arriving home after five;
There’s the magpies chortling to be fed;
There the crackle of a blazing log fire;
There’s the sizzle of bacon and eggs.

There’s the whimper as you nibble a neck;
There’s rain pounding down on the tiles;
There’s parrots squabbling on the back deck;
There’s thunder rumbling, away some miles.

There’s the moon and the baying of hounds;
There’s children in the park, having fun;
The world abounds with millions of sounds,
How can I possibly only choose one?

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXXI- The Letter

.

Today, April 25th, is ANZAC Day in Australia.
Ninety-five years ago Australian soldiers were landed in southern Turkey
as part of Churchill’s ill-conceived plan to attack Germany from the south.
Thousands died.

Prologue

There’s a picket fence and a cottage gate,
An anxious frown, the postman’s late…
He comes at last, he understands,
And the precious envelope changes hands.

The Letter

Dearest Mother, it’s late, it’s cold,
Me and some mates are in a trench,
Huddled for warmth, no food, no smokes.
I can’t begin to describe the stench
Of the bodies we have no time
To bury in any sort of respectful way.
They say the push is on tomorrow,
Never have I so dreaded the day.
It’s a lottery, you know, who gets shot
We shout and holler and run the guns,
To drop and dig all over again.
Greetings from Hell, your loving son.

Epilogue

As every mother ruefully learns
It’s not her son who eventually returns;
There’s a stranger standing in her hall,
If, of course, he returns at all.

Translated from the Turkish.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXX - Coming Out

.

Australian swimmer, Daniel Kowalski, came out this weekend and proclaimed that he was gay.

I have no problem with that and I wish him well. Indeed, he is an inspiration.

I feel that the time is right for me to come out, as well.

Coming Out

I admit that I have long lived a lie

(Oh Mother, please, there’s no need to cry!)

Since about twelve, a feckless youth,

I have known a dark and inner truth.

As I watched those playing sports,

In coloured tops and football shorts,

A feeling rose (here I must be cautious)

I hid it well but it made me nauseous.

How could I be a male, strongly virile

And not adore football, Australian style?

There I’ve said it and now proudly proclaim

I cannot stand the wretched game.

Actually, I’m an atheist to all footballing,

Their gratuitous thuggery is just appalling.

I detest the game and how they play it,

And it is such a relief to finally say it.

---

© J Cosmo Newbery

---

CLXXXIX - A Sonnet to the Individual

.

A Sonnet to the Individual

It’s the modern sterile normality

That all should be a social clone;

Eating, drinking, talking banality,

Never individual, never alone.

Oh, yes, of course, we claim we are

But between claims and actions there’s a gap:

Who can, from their phone, stray far

Or pass up TV’s nightly serve of pap?

I , of course, am the complete individual,

Bowing to style but never to fashion.

I know one day we’ll run out of fuel

And our caves will echo with talk and passion.

A truth both worrying and most formal:

If everyone was like me --- I’d be normal.

---


© J Cosmo Newbery

---

CLXXXVIII - S-Bend, Bent Double.

In comments to the last post, Dianne suggested I could write a poem about anything.
I don't know about that but there was a paper clip on my desk...


S-Bend, Bent Double.

The envelope please! And the winner is
The Paperclip! For it’s starring role in biz-(pause)-e-ness!
This little piece of wire, bent in upon itself
Is leading role on the office shelf.

It holds your piles of notes together
Better than string or pins or leather.
It will even catch and hold some pages
And secretly smile as you search for ages
Until you find your wayward notes
Snared at the back of some pile of quotes.

The paperclip is, surprise!, for clipping paper
But some people want to make them straighter:
Psychologists watch as you unbend them,
The shapes you make and how you defend them.
Some people unbend them as a tooth pick,
Others make them vanish, their party trick.
Some even use them to reset a device
While others just flick them, a habit not nice.

Something to which I lightly aspire
Is to own the patent for this twisted wire.
Several billion are made each week
And would nearly fund the retirement I seek.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXVII - Souped-up Saucers

.

Souped-Up Saucers

Human beings, down through the ages
Have questioned the wise men and the sages,
Wanting to know “Are we truly alone?
Did ET really have someone to phone?”

On a country lane in a country world
A piece of cosmic crockery is hurled;
It hovers enticing, neither plane nor bird,
For photos, of course, but invariably blurred.

For reasons no-one seems to know
We are only visited by the shy UFO.
Treating the cities with galactic distain,
They come to the sticks, then are gone again.

Just as hoons drive to the industrial estate
To burn rubber, drink beer and procreate,
What if these souped up saucers hold the same,
Hoons after a good time on galactic back lane?

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXVI - Delayed Gratification

.

One Minute Writer had a topic "Delayed Gratification -Write about a time you had to wait to get something you really wanted."
Now I sort of meandered about the topic - not too sure if I favoured delayed gratification or not.
But I probably wont write any more now until I am back in Melbourne,
so you too can have delayed gratification.

Delayed Gratification.

I. Immediate Response.

I’m not much of a fan of long waiting
To receive what I’m contemplating.
The sooner I get ‘em, the sooner I forget ‘em;
Living life as a form of speed dating.

Remember, to delay receiving rewards
Is a sneaky old trick of the Lord’s.
“Stay very quiet and don’t start a riot
And you’ll receive all that Heaven affords.”


II. Delayed Response.

There’s pleasure in embracing the sensual
And ‘now’ is much better than ‘eventual’.
But I draw the line at drinking bad wine
Or sex with a goat, even consensual.

So, yes, I admit some things I will wait for
Like the dental appointment I’m late for,
And that horrible prancing that goes for folk dancing,
A pastime I have a deep hate for.

Other things that are best long delayed
Are bagpipes, however they are played.
There’s daytime TV and Chamomile tea
And all wars and religious crusades.

More things I’m in no hurry to be trying
Are bunge jumping, carol singing and flying.
Brussel Sprouts should be thrown out
And I’m in no particular rush to be dying.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXV - Four Lines of Garden

.

Marc, at Daily Writing Practice had a prompt
to write a four line poem about gardens.
Four lines? Well, what say I write a limerick style
and combine lines 3 and 4 into one. (Sorry Percy).
And what say I write two small poems rather than one.
Apart from that, I followed his prompt exactly.

Garden

I

I don’t see the need to work hard in
the democratic jungle, my garden.
Planted seedlings and self-made weedlings
Are all due my equal regardin’.



II

A weed is not a gardening disgrace,
It’s just living in a most awkward place.
A rose would earn scorn in a paddock of corn
But still smell of old ladies and lace.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXIV - Postcard from Rome

.

As a suitable end to Easter, I present you with a poem
written by my ancestor J Cosmos Newberrium,
sent on a post-rock from Rome, circa 100AD.

For your convenience, I also provide a translation.


Odoratus piscari.

Extendere tu toga! Iter fibula!
Tractus alteruter. Campus tintinnabula.

Narrare catena? Vestum detrahere?
Bellus vomitorium! Quo vadere?

Aspicere! Magnus harena!
Populus! Sonitus! Musicena!

Aspicere! Caesar! Ave Emperator!
Pollex gravis, Punctun declivator.

Oi! Quo vadis custodia?
Et porta? Cur claudere? Quo sedia?

Ave omnes! Adventare, solum commodus.
Spectare! Longinguus porta apertus.

Bellus feles! Pulcher feles!
Bellus dentes! Haliotoses.

◊◊◊

Something smells fishy.

Straighten your toga, we’re going to a show!
Pull the other one, it plays Jingle Bells.
Why are you taking off my leg irons?
Nice tunnel, where will it take us?
Oh look, a large arena! People! Noise! Music!
Oh look! The emperor! Hi Guv!
His thumb seems heavy, it is hanging down.
Hey! Where have the guards gone?
And the gate? Why is it closed. Where are our seats?
Hi everyone! Come on down, the sand’s fine!
Hey look! The far gate has opened.
Nice kitty. Pretty kitty.
Lovely teeth. Nasty breath.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXIII - Cups of Joy

.

Cups of joy

Seldom in the daily rush of life
Do you meet with such perfection;
Beautifully displayed, with love and care,
They arouse a deep affection.

Such vessels are a joy to hold
And warm the cockles of your heart.
Lovingly filled, sweet and warm and milky,
They are a most wond’rous piece of art.

O glorious porcelain saucer and cup
I swoon, en route to fainting,
Now, if the woman will kindly step away,
I can look more closely at the painting.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXII - The Modern Alchemist

.

Sunday Scribblings had a prompt about Alchemy.
Here is my take on it.

The Modern Alchemist

In his dark and moist and danky room,
The alchemist pursues his ancient trade:
To find the famed philosopher’s stone –
How the change from lead to gold is made.

Amid the cinnabar, galena and aqua regia
Pyrites, potash and smells infernal
He has two other research goals;
Ultimate wisdom and youth eternal.

Through the centuries, in malodorous labs,
The alchemist has been in honest pursuit
Of things now sold in monthly doses
By weaselly men in pinstriped suits.

The modern publisher, multinational,
Has turned type-metal into share gold
With magazines selling distilled wisdom
And lotions for eternal youth, or so we’re told.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXI - Postcard from Sydney

Postcard from Sydney

Sure, they have the Opera House
And a coat-hanger for a bridge,
But really, that’s the end of it,
Just a postcard for the ‘fridge.

The roads are just a parking lot,
The drivers can't relax;
Not a straight road anywhere,
Just covered bullock tracks.

They speak a different language:
A ‘middy’ holds their beer,
Their potato cakes are called scallops
And their scallop’s name’s unclear.

Their ladies are too precious,
The men all oil their pecs,
Their shock-jocks are all morons
And their footballers have no necks.

Sure, they have the Opera House
And a coat-hanger for a bridge,
But really, that’s the end of it,
Just a postcard for the ‘fridge.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---
Graphic adapted from Zazzle.com

Lest we forget (the train sauce).

.

I found that there are 25 or so of my poems on a Russian blog.
I don't mind, quite flattered really. They credit me but don't link to my blog.

One of my more sombre poems is about the stupidity of war.
Here is the original and the Russian translation.
For Dan, the original Russian is here.

Lest we forget

Lest we forget the heartfelt pain
Of needless death for pointless gain.
We should be closer to the gore
To see what horrors lie in store
For victims of this terror game.

Rockets are fired at far terrain
And bombs are dropped from a plane;
People aren’t people any more.
Lest we forget.

The leaders would do it all again
They love to clap the band’s refrain.
It’s been truly said, oft before,
There are no winners in a war.
Except, of course, on the gravy train.
Lest we forget.

◊◊◊

Lest we forget the heartache
From the useless death for senseless gain.
We should be closer to the gore
To see what horrors await
For the victims of the terrorist game.

In the rocket firing distant landscape
And bombs dropped from aircraft;
People aren't people do.
Lest we forget.


Leaders would do it all again
They love to slam band's refrain.
It's really said often before,
In war there are no winners.
Except, of course, train sauce.
Lest we forget.

---
© J Cosmo Newberyski
---

I am heading to Sydney for a week.
Look out Sydney. All others relax.
...

A Tolstoy moment: Words and Peas

.

It's my birthday and, innocently roaming the internet, what do I find?

A Russian translation of some of my poems!

I have visions of a monk in a monastery, slaving away by candle light...

The following is about Peas and was originally put up March 3rd, 2009:

The original is in black, Google's translation is in green:

Peas

Peas sit in their pods
Like commuters on a train.
They rattle round the sink
Before rolling down the drain.

Pea sitting in their pods
As residents of the suburbs by train.
They roar around the drain
Before you scroll down the drain.

Peas are very pretty,
They are, well, pea-green little balls;
Flick them out the window,
Or bounce them off the walls.

Peas are very likeable,
They are, well, in general, green as a pea small balls;
Click them out the window 

Or rip them from the walls.

Peas are little bullets,
A veggie like no other;
You can drop them on the cat
Or shoot them at your brother.

Pea - small markers
Vegetarian like no other;
You can lower them to the cat
Or shoot them at your brother.

Peas are most forgiving
No matter how you treat them;
Some folk love to mash them,
Some will even eat them.

Pea is the most forgiving
Regardless of how you process them;
Some people like to puree them,

Some even eat them.

◊◊◊

Well, that was a birthday present I hadn't expected!

◊◊◊

CLXXX - Mrs Whippy

.

One Minute Writer had a topic described thus:
"Kids get so excited when the ice cream truck comes into the neighborhood.
What kind of delivery truck would make adults line up in excitement?"


Mrs Whippy

Mr Whippy vans around the world
Attract Children to their frozen creams;
But Mrs Whippy, with her whip unfurled,
Attracts the men to live their dreams.

Chorus
The women may frown, pretending hurt,
They know where their men are to be found:
Queuing to get their sweet dessert,
When Mrs Whippy’s van comes around.

With her lash that flails and cracks,
She gives them moments to reminisce;
As she raises welts across their backs
Then sends them home to domestic bliss.

Chorus.

Mrs Whippy fills a great social need,
Doing what the little women would rather not.
For an hour the men are her mighty steed,
To be ridden and whipped and quickly forgot.

Chorus

All the men of the town enjoy her treats,
Even the saintly vicar is not excepted.
She doesn’t care who she beats
And all major credit cards are accepted.

Chorus


---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXIX - The Search

.

You will have heard of Edward Lear's poem "The Owl and the Pussycat".

He didn't tell the full story.


The Search for the Owl and the Pussycat

The Owl and the Pussycat went for a sail
In a beautiful pea-green boat.
It started to hail and to blow a gale
So Owl covered Cat with his coat.
His coat,
So Owl covered Cat with his coat.


The storm grew worse, grimmer by the minute;
From side to side, the small boat tossed,
And the bedraggled pair tossed within it.
“Pussy”, said Owl, “I think we're lost.
We're lost,
“I think we are quite lost."


At this the Pussy let out a howl,
A noise that would curdle cream,
“Tell me owl, you intelligent fowl,
What type of ‘lost’ do you mean?
Do you mean,
What type of ‘lost’ do you mean?”


Are you saying we’re just a little bit out,
That we aren’t where previously assumed?
It’s a better answer, without any doubt,
Than the other, which means that we’re doomed.
We're doomed,
Than the other, which means that we’re doomed.


Back at shore, the alarm went out
That the seafaring two were missing.
They launched a craft, with a frog and a calf
And a limpet, fond of French kissing.
French kissing,
And a limpet, fond of French kissing.


The frog adopted the pose on the prow
Of someone surveying the skyline.
The calf faced backwards and stared to row
While the limpet had found some dry wine.
Dry wine,
While the limpet had found some dry wine.


The owl looked shocked, his eyes agog,
As the trio arrived, full throttle:
There was an exhausted calf, a Napoleon Frog,
And a limpet, who was stuck to a bottle.
A bottle,
And a limpet, who was stuck to a bottle.


And so they returned to whence they had come
All bedraggled and looking a mess.
The Pussy decided to go home to her Mum
And left the Owl to deal with the Press.
The press,
And left the Owl to deal with the Press.


The cameras flashed as the Owl told his tale,
And retelling, it never got shorter.
From the back of the boat came a muffled wail
As the limpet threw up in the water
The water,
As the limpet threw up in the water.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

Remember to vote for me at
Percy's Silly Poetry Competion
VOTE HERE
...

CLXXVIII - You are getting sheepy, very sheepy...

.

Cosmo had some little sheep,
Little sheep, little sheep,
Cosmo had some little sheep
Who loved what he had done.
And everything that Cosmo wrote
Cosmo wrote, Cosmo wrote,
And everything that Cosmo wrote
Was voted number one.

(Repeat)

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

OK, now my little sheeps, hold that thought.
It it time to put your cloven hooves to good use.

Sir Percy, cad, blackguard and arch-villain,
has opened up the voting site for his Silly Poetry Competition.
All I ask you is that you go to the site , write something suitable gushy
about me and vote for my poem.

You can, of course, read and be suitable impressed by the other poems
but after the social oo-s and ah-s are done, you will vote for me. OK?

The voting site is here.

To make it easier for you, I suggest that you just cut & paste
the following into the comment section at the voting site:

I am a sheep, more woolly than hairy,
And I find mint sauce both green and scary.
I prefer poems to be of lambs on the moor,
But a yak is close, if the lighting is poor,
So I cast my vote for J Cosmo Newbery!

◊◊◊

CLXXVII - The Ides of March

.

The Ides of March

Beware the Ides of March
Said the sayer of sooth;
Sitting mystically, aromatically,
Within her spiritual booth.

Chorus
I can read the future;
I can tell of coming romance;
I can milk for all you’re worth
If given half a chance.

I know all about your past,
That nasty moment in the water,
The number two figures closely,
And the time you stole a quarter.

Chorus

Your favourite flower is a rose
(Or maybe a lily, the image’s blurred).
And someone with the initial M
Is most sorry for what occurred.

Chorus

I sense you are quite tidy
But sometimes make a mess;
That you have a secret longing
For a job that has less stress.

Chorus

Now, show me your hand:
“My, my, your life-line splits in three!
It shows the generous nature
Of someone who likes to give! (whispered) To me.”

Chorus

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

◊◊◊

For strangers to this site, there is something of a joust going on between a number of knightly gentlemen (or otherwise) and demure , sweet and coy ladies. See the link to Sir Percy's Silly Poetry Competition in the side bar.

CLXXVI- If you don't mind.

.

I have been getting bit too much nasty stuff
from people who love sending 'jokes' to 57 recipients.
Often hateful, always misguided, I have taken to saying so.
And to 'Reply All' if the option is available.
This poem is a rondeau, suitable for rubbish
that keeps going around and around,
and might be subtitled "Hit the Road, Geoff".

If you don’t mind.

If you don’t mind me saying so
I think your taste has reached a low
In sending nasty hateful guff
And, quite frankly, I have had enough.
It’s odd to see your Christian show
Of love and hope and tally-ho!
Crack and drop like the mud you throw.
I ask that you don’t send such stuff,
If you don’t mind.

PC is the name you bestow
To try to shut me up, I know
Now, leave if you must, in a huff
But I’m not afraid to call your bluff.
Oh, and shut the door as you go.
If you don’t mind.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXV - Goldfish

.

Goldfish

Gold fish swims in a bowl of water;
She can be watched from every quarter.
Swim little gold fish, swim little gold fish,
Strange your life must be.

Gold fish has no mate to support her;
No sense wondering what he bought her.
Swim little gold fish, swim little gold fish,
Estranged your life must be.

Gold fish has no sons or daughters;
No point telling her that she orta.
Swim little gold fish, swim little gold fish,
Strange your life must be.

Gold fish swims in a bowl of water;
Unaware of impending slaughter.
Swim little gold fish, swim little gold fish,
Short your life will be.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXIV - Lilith

.

Lilith (1892), by John Collier in Southport Atkinson Art Gallery.

When looking for something quite unrelated,
I found the above painting of a lady called Lilith.
There seemed to be a need for a poem.

Lilith

Now there is something I never knew:
Eve was Adam's wife, number two.
Some tart called Lilith was the first to find
The family jewels of mankind.

There's no denying the girl's a looker
(though Eve, the bitch, called her a hooker).
When I look at her sweet young breasts
and ponder the pleasures they suggest
I really find it hard to believe
That Adam left her to shack up with Eve.

But I must say this quite up straight:
The snake would be off-putting on a date.

So who was this Lilith, build so well
That she held all of mankind in her spell?*
Was she, like Eve, made from a spare bit
Of Adam's first owner's body repair kit?
And, if instead of crawling from a pond,
She was the work of some God's wand
Perhaps some mystic in a cave'll
Tell me why she needs a navel?

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---
* OK, so mankind consisted of just one gullible guy
with a penchant for stealing apples.
Call it poetic license.
...

CLXXIII - Last Train to Gallimaufry

.

After much too much coffee,
I give you my entry in Sir Percy's
Silly Poetry Competition.

Last Train to Gallimaufry

The fireman fed the engine well
The train moved at full split.
It trailed its smoke across the land
And whistled quite a bit.
All this was rather odd because
There were no tracks for it.

Two travellers watched the passing view:
A yak, in sporting cleats,
And a rock who looked quite fetching
In a dress with tartan pleats.
They sat in awkward silence,
Upon green leather seats.

With a crack, the door flew back,
The yak gave half a shout:
In strode a little anchovy,
"Good Sirs, you shouldn't pout!
Come now, you mustn't be so glum,
What can we talk about?"

So saying he climbed upon the seat
And lit a thin cheroot.
"Socially irresponsible,
But I couldn't give a hoot!"
"You Sir!" to the yak he said
What's with the fancy boots?"

The Yak, of course, took great offence
And turned his head away,
Then Anchovy the asked the rock
Of what he had to say.
The Rock said what a rock says best,
In a stoic, rocky way.

So as the trip progressed along,
The anchovy took the floor:
He told them of the foamy sea,
Of bluebells on the shore
Of how he mined for opals
And how he won the war.

The Snark appeared, but briefly so,
"Present your tickets, please"
He took them with his flippers
And clipped them with his knees.
As quickly as he'd come, he was gone,
Back to the rose-red sea.

The anchovy resumed his monologue
From where he'd stopped before:
He talked of how to mend a fig
and the aroma of a door,
Of pots and pans and icecream vans
And whether pine trees snore.

By now the Yak could take no more.
He rosed and cleared his throat:
"Good Sir", he said, "You've lost the plot!"
"Here, Rock, hold my coat!"
He then recited a poem
Apparently learnt by rote.

◊◊◊

The Yak & Rocky.

T'was Brylcreem and the slimy locks
Could do little to hide the mange.
All greasy were the woollen socks
And the roast lamb tasted strange.

And there the Yak and Rock did sit
Beside the sea and knitting eggs.
They were wearing all their swimming kit
And bronzing one another's legs.

They watched some twit of the finest grade
A vorpal sword held in his hand,
Knick himself with the flailing blade
And collapse upon the sand.

As in ashen shock he lay,
The Yak and Rock, with all due care,
Pushed his vorpal sword away
And shaved off all his hair.

Knit one! Perl one! Knit one! Perl one!
The knitting needles fairly flew
And as they flickered in the golden sun
A lovely toupée grew.

A Yak sized hairpiece on the cards
And one moustache, quite thin.
The Yak looked like Keith Richards,
The Rock like Errol Flynn.

T'was Brylcreem and the slimy locks
Could do little to hide the mange.
All greasy were the woollen socks
And the roast lamb tasted strange.

◊◊◊

The Anchovy was astounded
He clapped his hands red-raw;
Even the Snark reappeared
And brusquely asked for more.
As for the Rock, he blushed a bit:
He'd heard it all before.

Now they were the best of friends
And talked of many things:
Of docks and socks and sticky-tape,
Of cowslips and of string
Of the perils of a face-lift
And how to dance a fling.

They talked away all through the day
'Till all were fairly hoarse.
Though they were all quite hungry
None fancied custard sauce.
So they sent out for a pizza,
No anchovies, of course.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

◊◊◊

For strangers to this site, there is something of a joust going on between a number of knightly gentlemen (or otherwise) and demure , sweet and coy ladies. See the link to Sir Percy's Silly Poetry Competition in the side bar.

CLXXII - The Worm and the Starling

.

While pondering my options for Percy's Competition and
collecting proper nouns for the main event,
I present a little diversion.

The Worm & The Starling
(Subtitle: Curtains for wormy)

"You can trust me" said the starling
I just want you for my friend.
I have no-one for "my darling"
I will love you 'til the end.

The worm was a little worried
His mum warned of bird like this;
So his decision was not hurried
By tales of love and bliss.

But silky words slipping from the beak
Lessened the young worm's fright.
They held each other cheek to cheek
And danced away the night.

"Come it's getting late" the starling said
"It's time to be counting sheep".
They lay down of a feather bed
But the worm was not inclined to sleep.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

◊◊◊

For strangers to this site, there is something of a joust going on between a number of knightly gentlemen (or otherwise) and demure , sweet and coy ladies. See the link to Sir Percy's Silly Poetry Competition in the side bar.

...

I suppose I should take this seriously...

.

Sir Percy berates me for not submitting the last poem into the Silly Poem Competition but, in all modesty, it was more spot-on than silly.

But what to write on? That's the question. I have already ruled out anything about Sir Percy, the silliest thing on the horizon, but what to choose.

I am calling on the Ladies to each present me with a single word, a proper noun for a silly poem, and I will then play with them.

The words, not the ladies, of course. We are talking proper here, okay?

So, Ladies, please: a word each: animal, vegetable, mineral. Any will do.

◊◊◊

For strangers to this site, there is something of a joust going on between a number of knightly gentlemen (or otherwise) and demure , sweet and coy ladies.

One of the cast, Sir Percy, has declared a Silly Poetry competition. The closing date is the Ides of March with a vote being held on the following day, March 16th, to decide the winner.

The cast, to date, are:

Myself, Sir J Cosmo Newbery, gentleman, scholar, knight errant and jolly good fellow.

Sir Percy Bisque Silley, rogue, vagabond and general scoundrel,

Lady Lorraine Awaiting classification by the censorship board.

Lady Cherylann Awaiting classification by the censorship board.

Sir Timoteo Awaiting classification by the censorship board.

The Lady Dianne, a sweet and innocent by-stander, cruelly turned on by Sir Percy, but fighting back with spunk and vigor.

Larry Wallberg Dark horse or Blue Elephant; you choose.
...

CLXXI - The Basic Joys of Villainy

.

Ah, Percy, Percy, Percy. You are all bluster and wind.
Below I present a duet based on the work of those wonder men, Lerner & Lowe.

The Basic Joys of Villainy

Sung by pure and lovely women like Julie Andrews,
Dianne, Ms Tripathy, Lorraine, Cherylann, Kate...
.Where are the simple joys of maidenhood?
Where are all those adoring daring boys?
Where's the knight pining so for me
he leaps to death in woe for me?
Oh where are a maiden's simple joys?

Sung by that blackguard and virgin, Sir Percy...

Where are the basic joys of villainy?
Where are all those busty, willing girls?
Where's the girl shining so for me
She splays her legs, says go for me
Oh, where are the villain's basic joys?

Shan't I have the normal life a maiden should?
Shall I never be rescued in the wood?
Shall two knights never tilt for me
and let their blood be spilt for me?
Oh where are the simple joys of maidenhood?

Shan't I have the normal life a villain should?
Shall I never take a maiden in the wood?
Shall maidens never flirt with me
And let my juices spurt from me?
Oh, where are the basic joys of villainy?

Shall I not be on a pedestal,
Worshipped and competed for?
Not be carried off, or better st'll,
Cause a little war?
Where are the simple joys of maidenhood?

Shall I throw her on a feather bed,
Remove her bodice and her fines?
Have my evil way with her, or better still
Do it several times?
Where are the basic joys of villainy?

Are those sweet, gentle pleasures gone for good?
Shall a feud not begin for me?
Shall kith not kill their kin for me?
Oh where are the trivial joys?
Harmless, convivial joys?
Where are the simple joys of maidenhood?

Why are these carnal pleasures still unfelt?
As my codpiece swells with lust in me
Will some maiden bare her bust for me?
Oh, I promise once it's done
I'll ride into the sun
Happy with the notch upon my belt.

---
© Lerner & Lowe
---

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

◊◊◊

For strangers to this site, there is something of a joust going on between a number of knightly gentlemen (or otherwise) and demure , sweet and coy ladies. See the link to Sir Percy's Silly Poetry Competition in the side bar.


...

Re-entering the arena...

.

Home again. And what villany I see happening in my absence!

Percy, the perfidious knight,
Writes plays about picking a fight.
In his pursuit of the lady
His actions are shady
And seldom exposed to bright light.

Time for battle, blackguard!
...

Intermission - On a mission.

.

Affairs of state call me interstate.

No doubt the varlet, Sir Percy Bisque Silley will be up to no good in my absence but it is a risk I must take.

I will deal with him on my return. Severely so.

Come Sancho...

...

Interlude - The Shroud of Tureen

.

Some of you may remember a poetry challenge of some years ago. The prize was the 'hand' (figuratively, of course) of the fair Mayden. The competition was won by a late and able entry, the dark horse-dog, K9.

My entry can be found here but to get the full taste of the competition you need to start here and move towards the conclusion.

Now, the as was Percy Bysshe Silly has reappeared, re-badged, as Percy Bisque Silley; all cheek and bravado, he has launched a Silly Poetry Competition.

Who is this soupy usurper? What is his story? Who knows. The bisque is a worry, implying a thick yet creamy (Dare I say unctuous? Yes.) foe.

Should I compete? Probably not, but most probably will.

By way of a ladle taster, here is a poem, slightly risque from the Bisque:

Bad, Bad Percy Brown
By Percy Bisque Silley

I walked a tightrope tambourine,
A Davy Jones at play;
I flirted gamely with the beat
As Ladies swooned in splay.

O splaysome Ladies, woe, for Shame!
You make me blush and stammer –
Although tis true in London-Towne
They know Me as The Hammer.

Which received my light rebuke in the comments:

A poet, one Percy Bisque Silley,
Was seriously proud of his willy.
But when he asked a young maid
If she would like to be splayed
The reception was decidedly chilly.

So, as you can see, the the bar is starting very low.

◊◊◊

Footnote:

Having been chastised by Percy for not capitalising "willy", I added the following:

There was worry on the face of the gal.
Percy was quick her doubts to dispel:
"It's to do with the cold
With warmth it'll unfold"
She blushed and just murmured "Capital".

...

CLXX - My Barbie

.

Australian poet, Dorothea Mackellar, wrote the poem "My Country".
It is something of an Australian icon and most Australians know a bit of it,
especially the line that reads "I love a sunburnt country".

This Australia Day, it seemed to me to be in need of modernizing.


My Barbie

The love of stew and couscous
Of rice and sushi-ed fish;
Or orange sauce with duckling
May be your favourite dish.
Strong love of stir-fried chicken
Noodles or gourmet pies -
I know but cannot share it
My love is otherwise.

I love a gas-fired barbie
With tongs and forks and things,
To carbonise some lamb chops
Or steaks and onion rings.
I love her cast iron hot-plate
I love her spacious grill,
For family or for parties,
My barbie fits the bill.

Standing tall with manly pride,
(Clutching a beer, of course)
You char-grill anything that walks
Then top it off with sauce.
It doesn't matter what you cook,
Snags or chops or game,
Dose them well with tomato sauce
And they all will taste the same.

Core of my heart, my barbie!
She shows that I'm a man
Who can do his share of housework,
Drinking lager from a can.
When the little woman's fuming
At the mess around the bath,
I can stick my manly chest out
And boast I do my half.

Core of my heart, my barbie!
I polish you like gold
The centre of my manhood
To cherish and to hold.
Under the plastic awning
Beside the wheelie bin
You are my pride and joy,
I gaze at you and grin.

A twelve ring gas fired barbie
Is a vision truly grand! -
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand –
A kitchen holds many splendours,
With rice cookers and woks
But I know my gas-fired barbie
Can incinerate an ox.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXIX - Roses are roses.

.

Seven Days Seven Answers
had a prompt based on the old rhyme:
Roses are red, violets are blue
Sugar is sweet and so are you.

I beg to differ...


Roses are roses, violets are not.

"Roses are red, violets are blue",
Overused twaddle and clearly untrue.
Some roses are white, others are pink,
In Texas they're yellow, the worlds biggest, I think.

Violets are odd, with their own special hue,
Violets are violet and definitely not blue.

That sugar is sweet, I have to agree,
But that's where it ends, it seems to me.
The thinking is flawed, the analogy faulty:
Sugar is sweet but you are quite salty.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXIII - A New Leaf

.

Sunday Scribblings had a topic called 'A New Leaf'.

A New Leaf

Turning a leaf to reveal new pages
Is a ritual passed on through the ages.
But it has no effect on
Most live's direction
As people feel safest in their cages.

◊◊◊

My New Year's resolution's a bold one,
As I know that my leaf is a gold one.
It beggars belief
To turn a new leaf
When I'm still quite enjoying the old one.

◊◊◊

Adam's wardrobe was very brief
It gave poor Eve no end of grief.
She used to say,
In her feminine way,
That he really should get a new leaf.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXII - Train of thought

.

Train of thought

The station's lit with pools of light
As people assemble from the night
The train, serpentine but uncurled,
Swallows us into a different world.
I quickly move to an empty seat
Beside me throbs an earphone beat.
Young girls giggle as young girls do
While the elderly just tut-tut and stew.
Men in suits consult their brokers
Others twitch (they're frustrated smokers)
Some retreat to an inner zone
While others commentate on the phone.
"I like Damien, he's a spunk, like, you know..."
"I should be home in ten minutes or so..."
"When I was a girl I would never try..."
"If they rise above five ten then buy..."
"We just passed through Box Hill West..."
"You can't believe the way she dressed..."
"Well, what else would you expect then...?"
"Please show your tickets for inspection!"
The clacking train makes it way as
A strange operetta for twenty players.
I reach my stop and gladly alight
To wander off into the night.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXI - The Year of Enough

.

City skyline with fireworks, circa 2050.

The Year of Enough

The fireworks, we are reliably told,
Were larger than any displayed before.
It seems symbolic, the future foretold,
Of mankind's foolish love of 'more'.

Everything must be bigger and better,
The previous guy's efforts puny and rough.
Every occasion must be a trend setter
Is it ever possible to just have enough?

Why must every Mk 2 exceed Mk 1?
Can we be happy with what we have got?
Or, like Lemmings, must we forever run?
Last year's is so passé, this one's so hot.

Like a midnight fireworks display,
We accelerate through our planet's resources
Until a final bang and then fizzle away,
Returning once more to carts and horses.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLX - The day after Christmas

.

One Minute Writer had a topic called
"How do you feel the day after Christmas?"

The day after Christmas

'Twas the day after Christmas and the house was so quiet,
The few folk who were stirring were resolving to diet.
Stockings were hanging from the chandelier,
Exactly who owned them was far from clear.

Some folk stayed away, snug in their beds,
As an inner drummer banged on their heads.
While the night before they had felt no pain,
The morning confirmed they'd overdone it again.

While they sadly nurse their aches and their ails,
Their wife takes the credit card off to the sales.
And those who now have a phone that can tweet
Send a message "Any recipes for piles of cold meat?"

So Christmas has come and it goes without saying
The Santas have retired and the carols stopped playing.
It felt so good but it's better when it stops
And, besides, the hot cross buns are now in the shops.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLIX - The Gift

.

The Gift

It's time to write that wretched list
Of people deserving of a gift.
Failure in this crucial task
Is a social death, cold and swift.

Chorus
Wrap those boxes, gifts and glitter
Paper, ribbon, fancy bows.
'Tis the time we must be givin'
Junk to folk we hardly know.

There's Mabel, Joyce and little Betty
But what of Peter, Jenny and their kind?
I know last year they gave us nothing
But what if this year, they change their mind?

Chorus

But wait! Who's coming up the path?
Aren't they from across the way?
Quick, wrap this can of biscuits
While I calmly pass the time of day.

Chorus

Oh-oh, here comes Ruth with an enormous box
Something expensive, no doubt imported.
Panic sweeps us, what should we do?
All we have is some milk assorted.

Chorus

The precious offerings are handed over
And we all obligingly coo and trill.
Our duties done and fences mended
Until the arrival of the fateful bill.

Chorus

Giving gifts can give great pleasure
Correctly done, they can be a hit.
But that 'gift' is the German word for poison
Doesn't surprise me one little bit.

Chorus

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---