Showing posts from May, 2021

Proud British Boat Poetry

Boris Johnson loaded up the Proud to be British Boat.
Tiny Union Jacks were handed out as passengers boarded.
Prince Andrew hovered on deck.
He offered to free parents from their children.
Said he would give back to the community by nannying.
The children sat in small, dark rooms as he read them books about his mother (assumed).
Adults sloshed down alcohol and waved their flags as they waited for their opportunity to worship at the Queen's shrine. 


The date was going terribly.
Mallory ran to the toilet declaring an emergency.
She clambered into the bowl and began some vigorous attempts at flushing.
After twenty minutes of trying to squeeze down the U bend and several enquiries as to whether she was ok she admitted defeat.
She climbed out and held her socks and shoes under the hand dryer.

Owl of Good Fortunes

An owl perched upon the statue's finger.
Big eyes, feathers, wings, the lot.
Villagers presented a mouse to the owl.
In return the owl offered the villagers good fortunes.
The villagers cheered and the owl fluttered away.


Spider-Man crawled into Cumslap's ear.
Cumslap began pointing at everything.
Then Spider-Man swung over to another guy and crawled into that one's head too.
Fingers flashed before his gormless expression.
This whole ordeal continued through several people.
Spider-Man was waxier than ever.
He was hating the job, to be fair to him.
Eventually everyone was pointing at everyone else.
A whole room of scumbags, fingers transfixed upon one another.
They were, it came as a shock to no one, all liars.


Some poors worked in retail.
Argos, Poundland, that sort of thing.
A comedian rocked up and started asking questions.
For some reason he assumed they'd know the inner workings of their companies.
Be aware of stock levels in every department and so on.
He took this material on stage.

The Unit

Jeff (18) took a razor to his scalp.
Set to work shaving off the hair.
He made a wig out of the harvest.
One less worry for the future.


John tripped over a ghost.
It had to be.
There's no way he'd be so clumsy.


Jack bought some plants.
He watered them.
Spoke to them.
Loved them more than his children.
The children became jealous.
They bought plant pots and buried their feet in the dirt.
Jack lost it.
Screamed at them.
Called them frauds.
Then went back to reading The Gruffalo to his orchid.


George booked flights to Portugal.
Packed his bags.
Burned a few phrase books.
If needed, he'd let his fists do the talking.


The car stopped.
Mary didn't seem to have a say in the matter.
She stamped her feet on the pedals and punched the steering wheel.
Called it a bastard too.
She received the silent treatment and sobbed into the glovebox.

Sea in the Shoes

Ronald pissed himself and his shoes squelched as he walked.
He closed his eyes and imagined wading through the ocean.


Yogi forgot how to do up his tie.
It turned into a sort of noose.
Boo-Boo discovered him later that day.

Mary Berry's Recipe for Friendship (Plus a Collection of Poems)

As I sit aboard my desk the temptation to spin in my chair arises, it does rotate after all, but there’s a hazard, a cable running from me into the machine. At best, some enthusiastic rotations would lead to a slightly uncomfortable couple of seconds as I untangle myself, at worst, DEATH. As luck would have it, I have a poem from this month (May ‘19) about death, sort of, and let’s knock that out now.

A gardener dug up the whole garden.
Things got a bit out of hand after concerns the six foot flower bed looked suspicious.

I know a gardener. Well, to say I know them would be a slight exaggeration, my neighbour has a garden and I’ve seen him out there, doing whatever it is gardeners do to their gardens. Buying bodies or something I suppose. You have to be suspicious of anyone who owns a garden these days. You don’t come into that sort of money by chance in the big city, let me tell you.

Tonight he felt extra posh.
The tinned fruit salad was emptied into a bowl.
He ate with stainless steel.

A little display of the kind of thing wealth can get you, there. If I recall correctly, I was well into tinned peaches during this period of my life. It was a brief but exciting time. Juicy fruit with none of the effort. Unless you can't unfurl the tin with a can opener, then those things take quite a lot of effort to get into. I own the correct tool for the job though, so it wasn't a big deal.

Mary Berry's glowing white teeth
Scrape against her spoon
They look very realistic
Her wrinkled lips unfurl with a smile
She chomps through the cutlery
The sponge cake is delicious

Would you Adam and also perhaps believe it, more cutlery in a poem. I remember the day like it was yesterday, the day I saw Mary Berry and she was holding a spoon. That’s the extent of my knowledge on Mary Berry to be honest with you. I’m sure Mary Berry has hundreds of fantastic recipes though, and a vast array of wonderful television appearances on the BBC and other such broadcasters. According to Wikipedia, she’s also known as Mary, Queen of Cakes, but I don’t think that’s an official title. Mary Berry uses a KitchenAid mixer.

A girthy person switched their scales to a unit they didn't understand.
They felt much better about themselves.

I wish May had a poem about a KitchenAid mixer, but it doesn’t. This is the closest I could find. It’s a piece of homeware, I think. I don’t really know what homeware is. Scales could be classified as a tool, which might preclude them from the homeware category, but again, I'm not sure how it works. This seems like the thing Mary Berry would know. Please get in touch, Mary. Apols for the previous poem.

He applied toothpaste to his brush before bed.
He was really starting to optimise his life.

Mary Berry and I would make for a fantastic friendship. I honestly believe that. I can imagine her right now, splayed across the chaise longue, one of those multitiered cake stands filled with Kiplings resting upon a doily on a small table beside her, flicking through my poetry. She's loving it. Mary Berry says I'm her favourite poet. I'm not the only poet she enjoys, obviously, she's a cultured woman, but I’m her favourite, I can see it in her eyes.

Wind blows
Leaf falls

I once wrote a haiku (see The February Batch for more details), upon its completion I felt the format was too loose. As a result I spent months working on a format of my own, which I called 'Twos'. As you can see, it’s two lines, two syllables per line. It’s the perfect format for poetry. That’s the kind of innovative thinking Mary Berry would love me for. I got bored with it after a month or so.

He tried to stay hopeful.
Maybe cooling the toast would give him what he wanted.
He remained unconvinced.

I have no idea whether or not Mary Berry has a toaster in her kitchen, Wikipedia doesn’t mention it. Asking google whether Mary Berry owns a toaster doesn’t do much to help either. What I can tell you is that Mary Berry enjoys Marmite on toast. That’s good quality research.

The babysitter sat on the baby.
It was clear there had been some misunderstandings.
This new job had gone wrong almost immediately.

I’m running out of ideas for tenuous links to Mary Berry. She probably knows more about babysitting than I do though. I’ve never had a babysitter, and I’ve never been one.

A daredevil swung his window wide.
The interior light was on.
It was night time.
It was thrilling.

Right, let’s rattle through these last ones. For some reason there’s more than my usual 10. I probably intended to delete one, but hey, who doesn’t love a bonus poem?

Terry spent the day in hiding.
Tomorrow he’d try to convince everyone he time travelled.

A little bit of time travel. Or hiding. Some people are absolutely brilliant at hiding, the problem is they usually go into hiding after committing some evil deed, and that's the kind of person you'd least want to be good at this game.

I shove stones in my pockets as quickly as possible
Leave my pockets alone
I can't carry your phone
My pockets are filled with stones!

This piece captures the plight of wearing pocketed clothing when those you are with have none. It’s a difficult time for all involved, but boundaries simply MUST be established. And it rhymes, so that’s good if you wanted a rhyme this month.

And that’s it for May 2019. As per, you can find more poems if you go back and take a look for yourself, I just picked 10 (11) for this collection. Thank you Mary Berry. Mary Berry’s Cook Books are available from all good bookshops and also Amazon If you really have to. I’ve never read one, I have no idea what they’re like. I’d imagine they contain recipes and such like.

Mary Berry's Mr Kipling Adventure

Mary Berry scouted the room for cameras.
Her eyes darting from left to right.
Hand edging towards the cake stand.
She snatched a Mr Kipling.
Guzzled the sponge in one.
Stretched back across her chaise longue.


Uno cards dealt.
Tom gave himself a game.
He laid down a reverse card.
Got confused.


Brad ate some chips.
But he called them french fries.
And he was in America.
So fair enough really.


A woman baked some bread.
She sold it back to herself for five times the cost of the materials.
Business was off to a good start.
She imagined the future.


Jason bought a deck of cards.
A Rubik's cube.
He bought an acoustic guitar too.
He aimed to be this year's megatwat.


Albert shook his own hand.
Turned and finger gunned a mirror.
He looked irritatingly pleased with himself.

A Wealth of Chocolate

Some guy with lots of chocolate didn't share his chocolate.
He ate chocolate and laughed at the people without chocolate.
The people without chocolate were sad about this.

Riding the Train

Scott rode the train.
His expression was joyless, perhaps owing to the air resistance, but in truth he was loving it.
He loved feeling the wind whoosh through his hair as they rattled down the rails.
A conductor waited at the next platform.
Planned to coax him down with an array of meats.

The Hole

Franklin fell down a hole.
His cries for help were fruitless.
The hole was very isolated.
Over time he began to respect the hole.
They became good friends.


Charles ran to the polling station.
Union flag fluttering in tow.
He kicked open the doors and scoured the ballot paper for the queen.
Began demanding answers from staff.
Returned home confused.


While Patrick slept he consumed a pillow.
The next morning his mouth felt very dry.
His neck ached.
He felt very full.

Pursuit of Wine

Sebastian pursued his love of wine.
Each journey became increasingly difficult.


John shot Arthur.
He wasn't pleased with the resulting stain.
This was typical of Arthur.
Always causing more trouble than he's worth.

The April Batch

This is the class of April '19. In it you'll find poems about things such as superheroes, stickiness, sexuality, and sycling. Sorry, cycling. That brilliant piece of alliteration is just the tip of the iceberg. Or maybe it's the entire ice cube. Keep reading to find out, if you don’t mind.

For reasons explained that I must have explained in the previous collections, there are 10 of these poems, and they’re in no particular order. They are numbered though, which is a bit confusing.

'Wow look at that!
Three pens
One for each hand!'
He didn't have three hands
'And a spare'

What's all this then? A poem about greed? Capitalism? Consumerism? As if I even know what those words mean. It's a poem about a guy with more pens than he has hands.

A woman discovered her man pumping away vigorously
Nothing could stop him now
She observed the rather unimpressive show
Arms crossed, standing in the doorway
"Don't worry" he said "we'll go for a ride soon"

Some guy thought he'd make a good cowboy.
He got in touch with the local gang.
This was before he remembered being terrified of horses.
He wasn't fond of shooting people either.
And he thought he looked bad in a hat.
He really started to regret the decision.

I rode a horse once. More than once in fact, at the very least twice. I'm not sure I get the appeal of horse riding. I now begin to wonder if there's anything larger than me I like. Trees? Those guys are sticks in the mud. Maybe I'm a sizeist. What a way to find out, right in the middle of a poetry collection.

A sticky woman spent her nights sitting in corners.
Mucking about making a mess.
Filling the room with horror as she awaited sustenance.
A cleaner would arrive and have to scoop up her filth.
Tomorrow she'd do it all again.
The duster was a disgrace.

Two old women
Stand beneath a tree
Talking to each other
They say nothing worth repeating

Like any worthwhile poet, sometimes I'll sit back and observe life, cataloguing events for future generations. This is but one such interaction I've caught.

The forklift operator loved his job so much
Sometimes he would put boxes in the wrong place just so he could lift them again
This irritated his boss but she couldn't bring herself to fire him
Not with that joyous expression on his face

Humans can, at times, be incredibly inefficient. What a nightmare.

Our eyes
See things
Because our hearts
Couldn't cope

This sort of thing really makes you think, doesn’t it? It’s entirely possible I spent too much time scrolling through Instagram prior to writing this one.

'What the hell is that'
A man bellows
Perturbed by what can be seen

A mystery for the ages.

He tried to squeeze through the gap.
He forgot all about his bones.
He was never going to get through with those in the way.

Batman forgot where he parked his Batmobile.
Two-Face was getting away!
Robin wouldn't stop complaining.
Batman had promised him ice cream,
After they caught Two-Face.

Have you ever parked in a giant car park and managed to forget where you left your car? I haven’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s hilarious every single time it happens in your favourite cartoon, film, or television show. Turns out it happens in poetry too, but to the likes of Batman and Robin.

That's April 2019 handled, onwards we go. But hey, while you're here, why not go and read the March collection? There's a story throughout it, which makes the whole thing enthralling.


Edward equipped a guitar.
He hacked away at the strings.
Knocked out some old guff about love.
His girlfriend tried her best to tune it out.


John got in touch with Amazon Customer Service.
Informed them it was his birthday.
Demanded they supply gifts.


Stuart tried to elbow bump Katie.
For some reason halving the length of your arm was the done thing these days.
He smiled at the observation his brain made.
Then he missed Katie's elbow.
They fell into each other.
Their masks fell off their ears.
They kissed.
Police charged the pair down.
Began clubbing them with disinfected truncheons.
Zapped them with Dettol laced pepper spray.

At The Movies

Samuel L. Jackson got lost in his green screen.
He wandered about for hours.
Hurled the typical zingers at people he imagined might be there.
He cried out for Robert Downey Jr. and the rest of the gang.