CCXVI - Pleasures of the flesh.

.

Pleasures of the Flesh

Alone in a hotel,
Far from home,
It’s common for passions,
Repressed, to roam.
Pleasures not often
Dished up at night
Tempt the traveller
With rare delights.
The heart has doubts
But the body has fewer
And readily succumbs
To this fleshy lure.
Temptation and doubt,
Each other derided,
But the conclusion
Was rather quickly decided:
I bought a pleasure,
Paid with cash,
Crumbed lamb cutlets,
Served with mash.

---
© 2011 J Cosmo Newbery

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CCXV - A Cheeky Little Read

.

Celia, at Fig Jam and Lime Cordial, asked us to say
what our favorite thing to read was.
Well, that's a given, surely!

A cheeky little read.

You can take your historic novels,
You can take your Mills & Boons
You can take your daily papers
With their dramas and cartoons.

Who cares who killed the Mocking Bird?
Or where lives the Great White Whale?
Or what shade of green the valley was?
Or how to cook with Tuscan kale?

Get rid of all that printed junk,
Piled up on coffee tables,
If you really want a gripping tale
You can’t go past wine labels.

There’s bountiful types of berries,
There’s the chocolate-melon discourse,
There’s the mystery of the sweaty saddle
When there’s no mention of a horse.

The labels tell an exciting tale
Of fine vintners and their must;
Afterwards you can drink the wine,
While books just gather dust.

---
© 2011 J Cosmo Newbery

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CCXIV - The Judas Goat

.

A friend and colleague has recently been told that he will be made redundant. But not yet.
In the mean time he must do nothing to startle the flock, keeping them happy and productive.

A ‘Judas Goat’ is a goat used at abattoirs to lead the sheep calmly to their death.

The Judas Goat

The Boss
I have to say, I’m sad to relate
We’re moving your job interstate.
But don’t feel sad or even blue,
Other will go as well as you.
Now, please go keep the place in order
Until we move across the border.

Chorus
He’s a Judas Goat and he has a way
Of making sheep think he’s okay.
He keeps them calm,
He soothes their nerves
And sees they’re fed and watered.
Then he takes his little flock of sheep
And leads them to be slaughtered.

The Boss
Please hang on, don’t run away
We need you to make the others stay.
We don’t want them making tracks
Until we’re ready to swing the axe.
And just to show you have our backing
We let you do the nasty sacking.

Chorus
He’s a Judas Goat and he has a way
Of making sheep think he’s okay.
He keeps them calm,
He soothes their nerves
And sees they’re fed and watered.
Then he takes his little flock of sheep
And leads them to be slaughtered.

The Boss
To try to make the whole thing fun
We’ll give you a bonus when it’s done.
Calling it ‘thirty pieces’ is rather rough,
We know redundancy can be tough,
We just want to show you that we care…

...you want me to put my money where?

---
© 2011 J Cosmo Newbery

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CCXIII - In Praise of Killing Cats

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Sunday Scribblings has a topic today called 'Curious'.

In Praise of Killing Cats

I wont win the hearts of the pussiphiles,
Those lovers of all things kitty and catty;
Like scratching posts of carpet scraps,
I’ll find myself shredded and tatty.

But someone must say what needs to be said:
Our survival is a cause for despairing.
Children are masters of asking ‘why?’
But us adults have given up caring.

T’was curiosity that drove the great minds
To explore and to paint and discover.
Science presents as a loyal spouse
But, ever tempting, curiosity is your lover.

We must embrace curiosity passionately,
For the future will not be forgiving.
And, if we lose a cat or two along the way,
It’s not too high a price for living.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery

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CCXII - Joyce Kilmer addresses a tomato...

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Sir Percy, as is his want, started a Tomato poem competition.
Here is an entry. There may be more...

Joyce Kilmer addresses a tomato…

I think that I shall never eat
A poem as a lunchtime treat.

A treat on whom my mouth is prest:
The tomato’s great (though second best).

A treat that’s filled with liquid sun,
When gently bitten, warm juices run.

A treat that slakes a summer’s thirst
(If the bird’s not found it first).

Upon whose flesh some salt is spread
And eaten with some crusty bread.

Poems are made by fools like me
But tomatoes are on toast for tea.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery

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CCXI - A Lady addresses a tomato...

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Sir Percy, as is his want, started a Tomato poem competition.
Here is an entry. There may be more...


A Lady addresses a tomato...

Lovely tomato, to you I accede,
Let nothing consummation impede.
A gentle nibble on your cheek,
I tremble to your smooth physique...
Oh dear, it seems you've spilled your seed!

---
© J Cosmo Newbery

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CCX - The Secret

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One Minute Writer had a topic "Secret"


The Secret

“Can I tell you a little secret?”
Oh, please don’t ask me that;
Am I expected to keep it a secret,
Safely beneath my hat?

A friend, let’s call her Maggie,
Relays secrets with great glee,
She says a secret stays a secret
If you tell no more than three.

She just loves to pass on secrets,
They’re a source of joy to her,
But she is far less understanding
If you spread some dirt on her.

Some people love the juicy gossip
Shared across a wall
But if you have some little secret
Please, don’t tell me at all.
---
© J Cosmo Newbery

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CCIX- Regrets

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Regrets

When I am breathing my last,
Metered by things that ‘ping’,
With nurses pillowing up my head
And a teary family in a ring,

I wonder if I will have regrets about
The things I’ve filled my time?
Will I wish I’d learn to swim
Or written poems that didn’t rhyme?

Will I wish I’d eaten Brussels’ Sprouts
More frequently than I do?
Or wish I’d spent a little time
And learned to dance a step or two?

Will I wish I’d worked for longer hours
Or more weekends or nights?
Or wish I’d watched more daytime TV
Or attended boxing fights?

No, I’m sure there are some things
That will never be resented;
But not every call was a clear one
And you play the cards presented.

Hindsight is most hurtful thing,
A critic without care.
All choices I made were the right ones,
As I was actually there.

All I can do is minimize
The regrets of looking back,
As the line becomes a flat one
And the memory fades to black.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery

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CCVII - Little Red Riding Hood

Charles Perrault, the earliest known writer of Little Red Riding Hood,
explained the 'moral' at the end so that no doubt is left to his intended meaning:

From this story one learns that children, especially young lasses, pretty, courteous and well-bred, do very wrong to listen to strangers, And it is not an unheard thing if the Wolf is thereby provided with his dinner. I say Wolf, for all wolves are not of the same sort; there is one kind with an amenable disposition — neither noisy, nor hateful, nor angry, but tame, obliging and gentle, following the young maids in the streets, even into their homes.

Alas! Who does not know that these gentle wolves are of all such creatures the most dangerous!

Time to return to the original.
In verse, of course.


Little Red Riding Hood.

This is the tale of Red Riding Hood,
A little girl, so trusting and good;
She was pretty, she was sweet,
The nicest girl you ever could meet.

Her hair was golden, like ripened corn,
The sun shone from her, as from the dawn.
Admiring glances on her would linger
And she had her Granny wrapped ‘round her finger.

She often skipped through the woods
To visit Granny with a basket of goods.
The woodcutters told her to be alert
As wolves would be attracted to her skirt.

But, unconcerned, she tripped along
Singing a sweet little skipping song.
But, true enough, a wolf was lurking,
Watching her pass and evilly smirking.

Wolves are cunning and know shortcuts
Through the woods to Grandma’s huts.
The wolf barged in, intentions shady,
And was quick up and upon the lady.

He threw the remains into the shed
And clambered into the old dear’s bed
Just as Riding Hood knocked and entered.
As normal, the room was lavender scented.

But as she approached the Granny’s bed
Some questions were forming in the little girl's head.
“Granny, you’re tense, why aren't you relaxing?
And I think you are overdue for waxing!”

The wolf to stop her from retreating
Quickly threw off all the sheeting.
“Now”, he cried “There’s nothing between us!”
“Granny!” she shrieked “You’ve got a penis!”

And now we come to the tragic bit,
A wolf is a wolf and life is a shit,
And the hairy beast had it’s wicked way.
No woodcutters came to save this day.

There are do-gooders who, scared of offending,
Love to tack on a happy ending;
But morality tales should maintain their gory
Or risk losing the point of the tragic story.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery

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CCVII - Emotional Food

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One Minute Writer had a topic "Write about a food that gives you a specific emotional response."
A limerick seems to be a good idea for something a bit risqué...


Emotional Food

There are many foods that emotionally sweeten
And make you feel good when they’re eaten;
But, for the food that permits
The best emotional hits,
Chocolate body-paint cannot be beaten.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CCVI - Not the full story

.

I know of two folk, one family, one work, who ran off to be with someone that they met on-line.
Or thought they met of line. Sometimes you don't get the full story.


Not the full story.

Romeo
But soft! What sound from yonder PC beeps?
It is an email! My darling Jools has written!
It’s love poem, full of the sweetest words!
Oh, I swoon, with the heartache of the smitten.

Narrator
Look at him, dear reader, the poor fool
Is besotted by a woman who isn’t even there.
In his mind she lives, a peaches and cream concoction
With flowing long red hair.
She has legs that reach her armpits
And always wears white gloves.
Angels sing wherever she sits
And she’s attended to by doves.

Romeo
Oh, my head and heart are throbbing
and I’m losing all perspective;
A very different throb engulfs my loins
And it’s hard to remain objective.
O Jools, my dearest darling!
The angel of my nightly dream;
I long to clutch you to me
With nothing in between!

Narrator
Oh, if he could see her sitting there
In dressing gown and pink slippers,
She has an over abundance of body hair
And her breath is edged with kippers.
Her hair is done up in curlers,
There’s a tattoo on each breast,
One is a portrait of her first boyfriend,
The other, a group shot of the rest.

But time, dear friends, for a reality check,
Both sides are damaged stock.
Romeo is a bit loose with the truth
And Jools is in for a shock.
He said he carried a six-pack
And she dreamed of rippling abs
But the guy is just a truckie
With an overload of flab.
He works in a sweat-stained singlet
And trucks beer from place to place;
But at night he puts on lipstick,
High heels and black French lace.
He’s had a few relationships
But none of them took anchor;
Well, there was a goat called Suzie,
But she left him for a banker.

I can’t but dread the future
For this pair of lusty dears.
It can’t but end in tragedy:
There’ll be weeping, there’ll be tears.

Jools
Romeo, Romeo, where for art thee?
We’re a match well made in heaven.
Come, let’s run away my love,
On a scale of one to ten, I think you are eleven.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CCV - Tourists as Sheep

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Some people have more organised tours than others...


Tourists as Sheep

Carrying roses, they walk in a line,
Like sheep in a field, well crossed.
A plastic label displays their name,
In case the poor darlings get lost.

Orchestrated to the minute,
The group disappears afar.
Sipping beer from the side lines
I gently murmur ‘Baaa!’


---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CCIV - The Buffet of Pigs Invasion

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Buffets bring out the worst in people.


The Buffet of Pigs Invasion

In my mind I hear the voice over
Presented, in hushed and expectant tones,
A monologue on the tourist
As they migrate from their temporary homes.

“Look!” the voice is heard saying,
“Here they come! The herd in underway.
See how they traverse the forecourt
As they seek the nightly buffet!”

“See them lay claim to a table
Then dart off to scour the displays,
Circling around the all offerings
To find the picks of the day.

‘Everything looks so good’ they say
And pile it on their plate.
One can only hope that if they keep it up
They’ll be too fat to mate.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CCIII - The Round Ball

.

The Round Ball

I thought, wrongly as it turns out,
That Castro’s island, blockaded and small
Would offer some protection
From the nonsense that is football.

“Where are you from?” the waiter asks.
My answer draws a look, half smirk half pity.
Obviously we are, in football terms,
Country kids, come to see the city.

But this to me is not a bad thing,
The sooner we’re are out, the better.
I have no time for the fretful press
With opinions, photos and letters.

Back home, I could see the headlines
As Rupert’s attack dogs would be let out:
Indignant, biting, vengeful;
And “Sack them all!” the pack will shout.

But late at night, down in the plaza,
Not far from our hotel room,
Happy kids kick a ball in the dust
As a band puts out a blues tune.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CCII- Praise to the Yak.

.

We had an internal flight on a YAK 42 - the original white knuckle airline.


Praise to the Yak!

A yak is hairy, a yak is strong,
But a yak cannot fly for very long.
When a plane’s called a Yak, one wonders why
But who would have thought a jumbo could fly?

The Yak is a tribute to minimum specs,
The seats were all broken, the table’s Laminex.
The engines were rusty, in need of a fix
The hostess bit the heads of day old chicks.

The Yak is a plane, extremely Russian,
What it lacks in finesse, it makes up in percussion.
But everything worked or, at least, didn’t fail
And I lived to pass on the tale.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CCI - Puppies of the Caribbean II

.

I was impressed, mentally but alas not physically, with the number of big breasted women about.
I seem to recall a UK television show where the hostess referred to her breasts as 'the puppies.
It was unclear as to whether this post should accompany the original Puppies of the Caribbean
or the previous post on Boobies. The Burns reference is to his Selkirk Grace.


Puppies of the Caribbean II

As she approaches, her assets wobble,
Like puppies under a blanket.
I glance briefly, avoiding a stare,
And, like Burns, quietly whisper ‘Thankit.’

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CC - Puppies of the Caribbean

.

There was a tennis tournament being held at our hotel.
Lot's of sour-faced children and anxious parents.


Puppies of the Caribbean

Obnoxious, snotty little brats,
Taking in their coach’s story;
They work the minor circuits
And dream of tennis glory.

They’re told that they can ‘do it’,
They’re told that they’re the cream,
Then dragged around the traps
To live their parent’s dream.

Not mixing with us common folk,
They are sullen and seldom talk.
They seem a little puzzled
We don’t worship where they walk.

I’m sure they have the backhand
I’m sure they have the serve,
I hope the stuck up little darlings
Get all that they deserve.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXXIX - Boobies

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Boobies

Boobies are quaint,
Boobies are sweet,
Boobies have the cutest
Of baby blue feet.

Boobies are trusting
Rather naïve,
Boobies watch you approach
Rather than leave.

Boobies can fly,
Boobies can dive,
Boobies have no idea
Of how to survive.

Boobies are quaint,
Boobies are sweet,
Boobies have the cutest
Of baby blue feet.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXXVIII - Thoughts on a different Plane.

.

Plenty of time to ponder on the flights.

When a day in a plane’s to be spent,
The hostess is a diversion, heaven sent.
But alas all the stewards
Dispensing the fluids,
Were male. Or maybe ambivalent.

◊◊◊

There’s something surreal in the scene
Of people coming or having been,
Row by row and seat by seat,
Four hundred hunks of airborne meat,
Watching life on a tiny screen.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

Baggage Allowance

.

Found this photos on Lee's 'Curate After Dark' blog.
It seemed a fitting way to reopen the case from the last post.
I have a few things written from my travels but I will stagger them out.

But the above photo prompted a brief thought:

Modern travel has its perils:
Visas, customs, jet-lag.
And waiting around in the airport lounge
At best, is still a drag
But I guess I just misheard my wife
When she said to pack my bag.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

Interlude, with wine.

.

One Minute Writer had a topic "Wine/Whine"
Write a brief bit of fiction using the words "wine" and "whine."
I am off on holidays but I will take a pad and pen.
You never know...

There will be weeping, some will whine;
Others will cheer, a few will pine;
But I'm about to take
A well earned break,
With a passport, a visa and a lot of wine.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXXVII - The Knight & the Dragon

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Sunday Scribblings had the topic "Dragons".

The Knight & the Dragon

The hero of our story is a knight,
Aroused by a young maiden’s plight.
The distress she was showing
Got his hormones a-flowing
And he headed off in search of a fight.

The maiden was screaming with fear
As the fire-breathing dragon drew near
With the intent to subdue her
And then rudely barbeque her
An unpleasant ending was clear.

The knight was sure he could beat him,
The dragon, equally sure, came to meet him.
As they prepared for the bout
The maid gave a shout:
“The knight! He’s fatter than me, eat him!”

The combatants fight to rules, well defined,
And she’d clearly crossed over the line.
The dragon gave a twitch
And flambéed the bitch.
They ate her with bread and a fine wine.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXXVI - Cold Comfort

.

Cold Comfort

I admit I was skeptical when I was told
That it was the chill that caused a cold.
I decided to test this temperate bleating
And see if she got ‘hot’ if I upped the heating.

If cold equals cold, then it stands to reason
That hot will bring forth some passionate squeezin’.
I went to the dial and set it higher,
Enough, I hoped, to inflame her desire.

Time went by and the room grew steamy
But she just grew more tired and dreamy
Until she slept, as if sedated,
And I sat there sadly, hot but deflated.

While colds are known for bodily emissions
(And I still doubt them caused by cold conditions)
If you really want a liquid exchange,
I suggest the heating in the temperate range.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXXVb - Taken with Relish, a second time.

.

In my previous post, Southlakesmom suggested my problem was using
'hors d'oeuvre' instead of the more common 'finger food'. Well, she may be right.
I would need different rhymes to make it work, though.
In the end, no joy, it took 3 extra characters.


Taken with Relish #2

Her fruits and her veggies were stewed
But her fantasies verged on the lewd.
She had sex on the brain,
Dreaming of entrée and main,
While foreplay was just finger food.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXXVa - Taken with Relish.

.

Susan, at Stoney River has a micro-fiction challenge where you must
write a short story in 140 characters or less. I failed the challenge,
assuming that I must count spaces, but liked the result anyway.
The prompt was the picture, above.


Taken with Relish

A woman, who loved to preserve,
Was known for her lack of reserve.
She would swap some pickle
For a slap and a tickle;
And thought foreplay was just a hors d'oeuvre.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLXXXXIV - Mixed Nuts

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One Minute Writer had a topic "Nuts"
This leaves plenty of scope as there are a number of meanings...

Prologue

“Nut” is a multi-purpose English word
In a language full of ambiguities;
No-one’s sure how this occurred
But it gives lots of poetic opportunities.

◊◊◊

Mixed Nuts

Peanuts are an odd little nugget
A ground grower, not a tree-er;
Roasted with some salt to hug it,
They’re perfect with a beer.

A coconut’s home is up a palm,
Not even a nut, it’s a seed instead;
It can do no end of harm
Should it drop upon your head.

To throw more confusion to the troops,
Some nuts are really just pretenders,
Not nuts at all, their really drupes,
Cashews and almonds, the main offenders.

Some relationships are quite skewed,
Some work while others strut.
No-one really wants to be screwed,
But is a bolt complete without a nut?

Male squirrels have them, squirreled away
To protect them from the frost,
I wonder if they use some other name
To prevent them from getting lost?

And then of course there are the ones,
The vicar sees; coming to seek repenters.
He finds them naked, poking fun;
He should knock before he enters.

There: nuts and how to store’em.
I’ve skate on thin ice, I fear,
Some may wish for more decorum.
My response, of course, is ‘Nuts to that idea’.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

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

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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

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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
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CLXXXVII - Souped-up Saucers

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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?

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© J Cosmo Newbery
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CLXXXVI - Delayed Gratification

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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.

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© J Cosmo Newbery
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CLXXXV - Four Lines of Garden

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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.

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© J Cosmo Newbery
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CLXXXIV - Postcard from Rome

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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.

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© J Cosmo Newbery
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