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
---

CLVIII - Mischief & Fun

.

To the tune of "God rest ye merry gentlemen" I give you:
Mischief and Fun

Why do you have such hairy legs?
You really should be shorn.
Whenever you are nearby
My wicked heart is torn
By lusting for the naked bits
Of you that are not fawn.
O bearer of mischief and joy,
Mischief and joy,
O bearer of mischief and joy.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLVII - Bits and Pieces

.

Bits.

The unicorn, we believe, was once around,
Though, sadly, traces have not been found.
Perhaps the wild sex
Of Tyrannosaurus Rex
Hammered them into the ground.

◊◊◊

The rainbow has the power to send
Explorers to follow it's bend.
They're wanting to hold
The promised gold
But (shh!) the pot's at the other end.

◊◊◊

There was a young girl called Nicky
Who regularly rang work for a sickie,
She explained to her boss
That when her mate came across
They preferred having a longie to a quickie.

◊◊◊

When the sun had gone down in the west,
And the night's in it's starry vest
We see lights from afar.
You can see the Dog Star!
Sirius?
No, just having a jest.

◊◊◊

The Cave of the Heart

When dealing with your wretched luck
And the world around you seems to suck
It does you well to crave
Escape into a quiet cave
With a teapot, some flowers and a duck.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLVI - Some Assembly Required.

.

One Minute Writer had a topic called "Manual"
"If you were to write a manual,
what would the topic be?"
That's where I started but I sort of drifted off topic.

Some assembly required.

I'm really not incompetent
And my wife is prone to agree.
Even standing she'll grant, quite adamant,
That I'm as handy as can be.

But a certain largish company,
Who retails life in kits,
Can quickly send me round the bend
With their wretched box of bits.

It really looks so simple
When you see it in the store.
But assembly demands at least three hands.
Sometimes even more.

You can leave it for some quiet time:
At night, when shops are shut,
It's not just whether you can get it together
But why are you short a nut?

The instructions are quite cryptic,
More useful upside down,
Written, I'm told, by a three year old
And translated by a clown.

Why do we endure this curious pain,
Stressing heart and mind and liver,
When , I have to say, there is an easier way:
Just shop where they deliver.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLV - The Poppies Blow

.

This is a rondeau and takes the second half of the first line of
John McCrae's "In Flander's Fields", also a rondeau, as it's inspiratation.
The first line reads "In Flanders fields the poppies blow".


The Poppies Blow

The poppies blow upon the plain
Where countless died, in senseless pain.
They kissed their girls and left with pride;
Young hearts inflamed, by those who lied,
To head abroad and then remain -
One of the many pointless slain;
Youth of our nation, killed in vain.

In memory of those who died,
The poppies blow.

The poppies heard the old refrain,
The soldiers marching to the train,
Bright-eyed youth, a life denied.
Blood red, they dipped their heads and cried,
Knowing we'd do it all again,
The poppies blow.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLIV - A Grain of Salt

.

This is a bit 'high horse-y' but,
after a relative sent me an email saying that
'if I forwarded it on to 20 people'
Ericsson would give me a free laptop, I snapped.


A Grain of Salt

While I'm sure it's not intrinsically mean
The web spreads gossip on a massive scale.
Every day when I start the machine
I get another batch of dodgy tales.

It's not my enemies who do this crime,
It's family, friends and neighbours.
They inadvertently steal my time
And disrupt my other labours.

The junk arrived and they believed it
Their brains have hardened and can't extend;
They think it true because they received it
And are far too quick to click 'resend'.

There's the list of Coca Cola's nasty traits,
And there's the racial slurs about nasty habits,
There's free computers, from Bill Gates,
And pills to make you fuck like rabbits.

There are tropical wonders, to give a lift,
And horror stories about mobile phoning.
I wont go on, you get my drift,
I shouldn't burden you with my moaning.

As it becomes harder to know who to trust
Being sceptical becomes a positive fault;
Read what they say, if you must,

But take it all with a grain of salt.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLIII - The Best Bird

.

Another photo from Dan Felstead's site.

Use the talents you possess,

for the woods would be a very silent place
if no birds sang except the best.

- Henry Van Dyke.


The Best Bird

Who will sing now Cock Robin is dead?
He sang the best, or so they said.
His voice was pure, the sound so sweet
No other bird dared to compete.
When Robin tilted back his head
The wrens all hoped for him to wed
And fought their way onto his bed
Now he lies beneath a sheet.
Who will sing now?

More hearts than his were cut and bled
When the arrow pierced that breast of red.
Dispirited birds were in retreat
None could sing, but only tweet.
He was the best and now he's dead.
Who will sing now?

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLII - On the night called Hallowed Eve

.

One of many fabulous photos at Dan Felstead's site.


On the night called Hallowed Eve.

At the end of October, late at night,
The spirits of the dead arise in flight.
Howling like banshees under a curse, a curse,
On the night called Hallowed Eve.

Ghosts come out, inviting our stares
As they rattle chains and shimmer on stairs.
No wind has the power to make them disperse, disperse,
On the night called Hallowed Eve.

And the vampires are there, as you would think,
They're flying around in search of a drink.
They've been dead a while and have quite a thirst, a thirst,
On the night called Hallowed Eve.

Like bundles of laundry, they rise from the tombs
And lumber along dodging witches on brooms.
No mistaking these mummies for a wet nurse, wet nurse,
On the night called Hallowed Eve.

They fly on brooms with scungy cats
Dragging behind a trail of black bats
The ones with red eyes are considered the worst, the worst,
On the night called Hallowed Eve.

And then, of course, come the walking dead,
They can walk through walls, or so it is said,
The zombies are just bodies in search of a hearse, a hearse,
On the night called Hallowed Eve.

The night is filled with so much commotion,
Of ghouls and ghosts, of spells and potions.
Inside we're eating food 'til we burst, we burst,
On the night called Hallowed Eve.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CLI - Field Report

.

One Minute Writer had a topic called "Alien"
"An alien visitor has been watching Earth for one year,
and now must send back a short report to its home planet.
What does the report say?"



Field Report

They lived here incognito
Studying us for a year;
Spies from a distant planet,
Exploring this new frontier.

The time had finally come
To report what they had found.
Was mankind a civilization,
And destined to hang around?

The report was not a long one,
Its conclusions fairly gruesome;
The outlook pessimistic
From this investigating twosome.

The nations are all fractious, it read
The peoples oft at odds;
Strangely, for their evolved state,
They still believe in Gods.

They rape the planet's larder
As if a barrel with no base;
They keep producing people
But are not conserving space.

They cry "it's not my problem"
They spend but no-one saves,
The future, if there is one,
Will be spent in windy caves.

The report was duly sent
On the experiment known as 'man'.
They shrugged and packed their bags,
"Come. Let's scarper while we can."

With a flicker of a whisker,
They twinkled and were not.
And their report just gathers dust
In some inner cosmic spot.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CL - Decisions

.

I was sent a picture by a friend.
The man obviously has a problem, I decided to help him.
As best I can.


Decisions

When it comes to etiquette
There is one thing unnerving:
That perennial problem
Of what wine to be serving.

Red wine with red meat
And white goes with fish;
Reisling suits a curry
Or a spicy Thai dish.

Port with some stilton,
Perhaps sherry to start
Moscato is now trendy
With a lemony tart.

But a trickier question
For the discerning gourmand
Is what wine to serve
With a well rounded blonde.

And what, for that matter,
Suits a dark brunette meal?
And for the fiery redhead
Is a chilled wine ideal?

There's Champagne, of course,
As a starter, well suited.
But beyond that point
The guide books are muted

If the meat is tender
And it is definitely young,
Perhaps Chardonnay, unwooded,
Will end what's begun?

But what if it's mutton,
And not lamb, as displaying,
Should I serve Merlot
And risk getting a flaying?

Perhaps I should be cautious,
But true to my star,
And just serve them all
With a fine Pinot Noir.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CIL - The Three Egg Omelette

.

Once, when my mother was sick, my father said "If she's going, I'm going."
His method of choice was to ignore health warnings.
I have used the Villanelle form for this poem.
.


The Three Egg Omelette

His wife lies in a hospital bed;
The house is empty, cold and bland,
And he fears the future will not be shared.

He free admits to being scared.
After fifty years of holding hands,
His wife lies in a hospital bed.

Demons dance within his head,
Whispering darkly, beyond command,
And he fears the future will not be shared.

The prospect fills his heart with dread,
It wasn’t in their wedding plans:
His wife lying in a hospital bed.

Inseparable since the day they wed,
With a love that few could understand,
Now he fears the future will not be shared.

Ignoring his wife’s cholesterol ban,
He breaks three eggs into the pan.
His wife lies in a hospital bed,
And he fears the future will not be shared.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXXVIII - The Farmer's Daughter

.

This particular form is called a Terzanelle; I tried one once before.

The Farmer’s Daughter.

With patience few can understand
She does her time upon the farm
And waits her chance to work the land.

Working hard through storm and calm,
Even though she’s not a son,
She does her time upon the farm.

In her, the next harvest has begun.
She has a passion for the soil
Even though she’s not a son.

She works with love where others toil.
It’s clear to all who see her face,
She has a passion for the soil.

In her mind, the plan’s in place.
She knows the things that’s needing done;
It’s clear to all who see her face

Her destiny lies beneath the sun.
With patience few can understand,
She knows the things that’s needing done
And waits her chance to work the land.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXXVII - No Joking!

.

No joking!

On April the first
Our society’s cursed,
By people who love pulling pranks.
They happily install
Goofy jokes that appall
And wonder why we never say ‘thanks’.

This need to trick
Is really quite sick
And makes any sensible folk shiver.
In Australia, at least,
Their numbers decreased,
With the bodies now floating down river.

When they finally die
And ascend to the sky
To report for the Heavenly review,
Wouldn’t it be great
If the guy on the gate
Said “Sorry, this ticket’s for Hell. Adieu.”

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXXVI - The Lord's Prayer

.

I opted to have a go at Mama's Losin' It's writing assignment from last week.
Well, sort of. Her prompt was "I don't believe in prayer because...".
I decided to take a look at this from God's point of view.
Naturally, it would be a musical.

There is also a shadow of Monty Python's Lumberjack song in the chorus.

The Lord's Prayer

I’m God! I amaze! I positively astound!
I created the heavens, the sky and the ground.
I’m omnipotent
With an intelligence quotient
That you can’t get your mind around.

Chorus
He’s a diety and he knows best
He loves his flock and smites the rest.
He has a beard,
A flowing robe,
And the patience that it takes.
He’s the ruler of the Universe
And he never makes mistakes.

I’m God! I’m King! I created mankind.
I’m the sweetest diety that you’ll ever find.
I’m Jehovah! I’m Allah!
I’m a really nice fella,
The sun shines out of my...well, nevermind.

Chorus

I’m God! I’m smart! I have global vision.
I’m CEO of the angelic division.
But by the end of the day
There’s junk in my tray,
Requesting I change my decisions.

Chorus.

I’m God! I’m tough! I know how to win.
But your lack of trust gets under my skin.
You've a habit of praying,
Over blindly obeying,
And the novelty’s wearing a bit thin.

Chorus.

I’m God! I’m mean. I’ve a hairy chest.
Junk mail irritates and gets me stressed,
Be very careful
When you send me a prayer full
I may just grant you what you request.

Chorus.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

For Gavin, read Cosmo.

.

It is an interesting observation that over half of all my poetic doodlings have been this year.

And it is still March.

Other things are playing on (and with) my mind and I am finding enthusiasm and inspiration waning a little and will take a short break.

I will be seen prowling your comments every so often though.

Play nicely.
...

CXXXXV - I Wish

.

I wish

I wish
You abundance from your God above

I wish
You happiness and well deserved love.

I wish
You curiosity and the bravery to try it

I wish
You health without needing to diet.

I wish
You the wisdom to clearly see
The world, not as it is, but as it should be.

I wish
You the potential with which you were born.

I wish
You wouldn't blow those seeds on my lawn.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXXIV - A Drop of Pleasure

.

I am genuinely fascinated by watching repetitive things, like water drops.
The finding of the picture was just a happy coincidence.
Far be it for me to pass it by.

A Drop of Pleasure

I can be fascinated by
The simplest of things;
There is a gentle pleasure
In what nature brings.

A drop of water that
Grows and swells, then falls
Is a rhythmic joy
That endlessly enthralls.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXXIII - Missing Pieces

.

One Minute Writer had a topic called "Missing"
"What is missing in your life? Are you trying to find it?"

Missing Pieces

What’s missing from your life?
Is a question trickier than it seems:
It frees the mind to run rife
But it usually grazes at extremes.

The brain’s not always a friend
And plays tricks of a nasty kind;
Your life becomes a race with no end
On the treadmill of the mind.

The house, the job, the kids, the car
Should be nothing but the best.
This sets the bar too high by far
And means you’ll never ever rest.

In life, there are some joys around
That give love and warm caress;
And sometimes more is found
If you choose to look for less.

So review the goals you’ve listed,
And ponder your earthly lot,
But heed the question, neatly twisted,
Are you aware of what you forgot?

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXXII - All that glistens.

.

There has been a news story about a Japanese town with the unlikely name of Suwa,
extracting $250,000 worth of gold from their...well...sewer.
It seemed to need a poem:


All that glistens.

A town in Japan has come up trumps
By extracting pay dirt from its sumps
They chemically skewer
The gold in their sewers
But are careful to avoid all the lumps,
The lumps,
But are careful to avoid all the lumps,

In these crappy times, this town’s in luck
Now the city is making a pretty buck
With the melt down
From the bowels of the town
There’s plenty of money in muck,
In muck,
There’s plenty of money in muck,

A lover will buy his darling a gem
Or a dozen roses, red and long stem
But when your beau brings
Some golden ear-rings
You’ll wonder from where he got them,
Got them,
You’ll wonder from where he got them.

And if the stuff that exits from underneath
May one day return as the gold in your teeth
It’s time to tell
Your kids to brush well
Or they’ll be shedding tears of grief,
Of grief,
They’ll be shedding tears of grief.

It’s not a thought I’d advise you to hold
But fortune obviously favours the bowled,
So when having the urge
To sit down and purge
Remember, the sewers are paved with gold,
With gold,
The sewers are paved with gold.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXXI - Comfort Food

.

One Minute Writer had a topic called "Comfort Food"
True, it was back in October last year.
I'm a slow writer.

Comfort Food

Good comfort food is a dying art
Full of things that are bad for the heart
Steamed puddings are divine
And fruit pies are fine
But you really can't beat a good tart.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXX - Helen

.

Helen of Troy is known as "the face that launched a thousand ships".
One wonders, naturally, what happened on ship number 1001.
I have one possible scenario...


Helen

The ship was the loveliest ship you would see
To grace the rocking waves;
Built from the wood of the peppermint tree
And assembled by hundreds of slaves.

The time to christen it, with all that that entails,
Fell to the powers that be;
To implore the gods of all who sails
To protect them from the sea.

The crowd was restless as it waited about
Keen for the show to begin;
The hawkers made a killing, flogging cheese and trout
And glasses of dubious gin.

The Captain was looking rather proud,
For the launch of his own creation:
“Arise!” he told the standing crowd
“To show me your appreciation!”

“When it comes to ships, it must be told
Our guest has a record to stun:
She’s done it before, a thousand fold,
Today’s is a thousand and one”

“I now call on Helen, fair lady of Troy,
To bless our ship and its crews.”
He smiled and turned but soon lost his joy:
As the lady was having a snooze.

While often things are not all they appear,
Some gin may have passed her lips.
“Enough!” she cried, “I’ve had it to here
With launching your wretched ships.”

She then gave the Captain an enormous kiss
And then threw up on his deck.
While a ship’s life will often end like this
They don’t normally start off with a wreck.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXIX - Regrowth

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New shoots appearing through the charred bark of a Peppermint Gum;
the rebirth of the Victorian forests after the bushfires.

Regrowth

When the last human
Crawls into his cave to die –
Will he be missed?
Will anyone wonder why?

Why was his reign so short,
Compared to the dinosaurs?
Why did he have to fight
So many pointless wars?

Why did he harness nature
Then systematically abuse it?
Why did he evolve a brain
If he didn’t intend to use it?

No, he wont be missed
But most of the living things.
He was just another failure
In the broader scheme of things.

Despite the ills he left behind
The planet will rebirth;
With the cockroaches in control
It wont be the end of the earth.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXVIII - Reflections on a Wet City

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Photo from Dan Felstead's site.


Reflections on a Wet City

The head lights throw
Speckled shafts through the night,
As pedestrians scurry
Like mother hens, in fright.
In their flappy haste
They miss the delight.

It’s raining in town
And the whole scene’s rent;
Rain magnifies
The sounds, sights and scents
It’s all there to savour
If you are not stooped and bent.

Car tyres crackle
As they push through the rain,
The streets all bubble
Like viewed through champagne,
Like an excited child
I stand, shouting “Again!”.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXVII - The Graveyard

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Spent a couple of nights at a farm. Like so many farms, it was surrounded by defunct,
but not discarded, farm machinery. I have used the Villanelle form for this poem.

The Graveyard

Anything that comes, forever stays;
Worked to death and left to rust:
The russet bones of bygone days.

Around the bodies, cattle graze
Sharing the enemy: heat and dust.
Anything that comes, forever stays.

Skeletons shimmer in the haze,
Fringed with weeds, skywards thrust;
The russet bones of bygone days.

Metal can fight against Nature’s ways
But fails in the end, as metal must.
Anything that comes, forever stays.

The evening sunlight warmly plays
Across the carcass: rotting and bust;
The russet bones of bygone days.

Broken bodies, held in trust,
The remnants of those who could not adjust.
Anything that comes, forever stays;
The russet bones of bygone days.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXVI - The Genie Mystery

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The Genie Mystery

You rub the lamp
And, in a puff of smoke,
A genie appears;
Sometimes girl, sometimes bloke.

And then, in exchange
For some liberating task
They promise to grant
Any three things you ask.

Invariable, the winner
Of this oil-lamp sport
Chooses badly
And is left with nought.

I don’t understand why,
After two sad misses,
The lucky lamp-rubber
Didn’t ask for more wishes.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXV - Tombstone

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One Minute Writer had a topic called "Epitaph"
"What would you like your gravestone to say?"

◊

Alternatively...

Here lies the body of J Cosmo
He scribbled a note or two, on the go;
Now that he's gone and there's no more notes
Will anyone remember what he wrote?

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXIV - A Seafood Allergy.

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Laura Jayne at Pictures, Poetry & Prose poses a daily writing challenge.

The prompt for this poem was “Mermaid”.

A Seafood Allergy

I’ve never understood that seafood dish,
One part woman, one part fish.
Old sea salts, in a crackling voice,
Swear they were the catch of choice
But I can’t really say I totally agree
With these nostalgic captains of the sea.

I like my women full bodied and warm
Not blown onto rocks by a sudden storm,
Cold and wet and quite derelict
(At least their nipples would be erect)
These creatures of the briny sea
Seem highly over-rated to me.

While the literature all does attest
Them to be long of hair and full of breast,
And, reportedly, they sing a siren’s song,
But for sex, at least, their geometry’s wrong.
The books are silent on positions for fun
But it’s certainly not the missionary one.

I respect the captains and their notions
Of lovely mermaids in distant oceans
But it’s not the dream of most sane males
For their woman to be semi-clad in scales.
So, let me be firm and brutally straight:
I like my fish,
But with chips, on a plate.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---

CXXXIII - Terrorism on the Eight Oh Five.

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Terrorism on the Eight Oh Five.

They stood or they sat
In their own personal worlds,
As, unaware of their peril,
Through the suburbs they hurled.

In the clarity of hindsight,
Or so reporters were tappin’,
It was surely an incident
Just waiting to happen.

The first sign to appear
Of an assault underway
Were suspicious glances
And little coughs of dismay.

It’s hard to be finding
An act more foul
Than the malodorous venting
Of a festering bowel.

But the train sped on
Not knowing the despair
Of a carriage full of people,
Desperate for air.

Come the train station,
And in a strange parallel,
People in a stink
Burst forth from their shell.

---
© J Cosmo Newbery
---