The February Batch (feat. Theresa)

February. A confusing month, to be sure. There aren’t enough days in the thing, but we’ve long since accepted that, apparently. I find it hard to believe, myself. Some guy slapped ol’ Febbo up on the board, told everyone it has 28(ish) days, and people just agreed. That ain’t right, is it? You could never get away with that sort of thing in these current days and times.

Whatever, we’re here now. Here two years ago, of course. Still back in 2019 you see. I’m beginning to think writing about months that happened two years ago might be one of the worst ideas I’ve had. I have absolutely no idea what was going on, and this poetry doesn’t seem to contain any relevant prompts to jog the memory. Theresa May was seemingly still Prime Minister, no doubt having the time of her life. There’s a haiku about her in here.

Anyway, here are the top 10 poems from February. Just to confirm once again, that’s the 2019 February, and not the most recent February. Keep clinging on and hope for the best.

Adam's leaf fell off and blew away.
He was too embarrassed to bend over and pick up another.
He cupped his balls and hoped no one wanted to shake his hand.

Only fans of the bible will get this poem. I'm not, which is why I don’t understand it at all. Must have been some sort of divine intervention going on when I wrote it, or something like that.

A woman shifted in her sleep, knocking over the toaster.
A man had misunderstood her request.
She brushed the crumbs off her morning flesh, called him an idiot and departed.
The barely warmed bread had fallen out of the toaster, he palmed it, melancholy.

Breakfast in bed repulses me. I am to crumbs in bed as Anakin is to sand everywhere.

Surrounded by the sights of Paris,
She awaits a kiss atop the Eiffel Tower.
He takes in the view, oblivious.

Love is confusing, etc.

Doctor Strange was delighted with his cloak.
It would give him cuddles upon request.
He thought that was lovely.

Sue from the tennis still reads out questions.
They laugh at nothing.
She feeds on crumbs that have fallen from cricket Phil.
I'm not sure anyone knows they are still there.

I wrote this on the day I learned ‘A Question of Sport’ is still on television. I just googled the show and apparently Sue Baker is leaving or possibly has left. One of those two things. In any case, this poem should probably be printed out and stored in a museum for historical purposes.

To be a muscular kissing man
Is the greatest challenge of all
These weights are all so heavy
He feels his knees crumple

He tries and tries and tries again
To lift above his head
These weights that are still so heavy
His arms snap and now he's dead

He looks upon his fresh new corpse
At least it's easy to carry
The scrawny, weak, delicate frame
Of a man no one would marry

This one rhymes! How did that get in here? Perhaps an experimental day. A terrible day. A dark day of poetry.

He admired the brickwork while walking by the house.
People don't really do that these days.
It's more about the shrubbery.
He thinks to himself unsure if it's true.

Back in the good old days, when we were all allowed to go on aimless walks. These days of course (lockdown times), we’re only allowed out for exercise. Determined, focused exercise. I think everyone should be forced to wear blinkers, so we can ensure they’re not enjoying the scenery.

Listening to a symphony a poet feels some feelings.
It writes about them in the past.
Yesterday at the very least.
Now the verse cannot be found.
And the feelings felt were fleeting.

Look at Theresa
How does she remain so still
May be a robot

It’s that poem I mentioned earlier.

A poet roams the morning grass.
Filled with morning dew.
A walk enjoyed significantly more.
If they hadn't forgotten their shoes.

Another one of those aimless walks. February 2019 must have been filled with them. What a time to be alive.

That’s the February 2019 summary done, check back frequently for more things, or start scrolling through the website. I recommend both.