The Best Poetry Collection of September Past

A man prepares his bowl of Shreddies.
He curses Nestle.
Then sits back and enjoys the Shreddies (Frosted) anyway.

I’m not one for cereal, so I’m really stepping out of my comfort zone writing something like this. My general dislike of cereal would explain why I wrote about a man eating a bowl of Frosted Shreddies, and not about me not eating a bowl of Frosted Shreddies. It sort of shows my range. In any case, I can’t be bothered to carry you on a crusade against Nestle, in fact, I care so little about the company that I can’t even be bothered to add that little flourish above the e. Perhaps it’s best to pretend I’m doing that out of disdain. Yes.

A curious man picked up a rock.
He thought about how old it might be.
He rolled it in his fingers,
Weighed it in his hand,
Waved it about a bit.
Chucked it in the air and let it fall to the ground.
"A good 10 years on that rock" he said to himself, satisfied.

This is just a little poem about some rocks, or a man who enjoys them, I guess. Maybe a bit of both. I tend not to pick up rocks as rocks tend to find themselves in mud. This is, yet again, showing my range as a poet. My ability to stand back, observe, and place myself in the shoes of others.

The delivery driver caught the homeowner staring through a window.
He sat in his van waiting, anxious.
For 10 minutes he pretended to eat a sandwich.
They wouldn't stop watching.
They wouldn't stop waiting.
He gave in and sauntered out casual as you like.
Drop kicked the package onto the roof.
Shoved a note through the door and retreated rapidly.

Far too frequently I’ve glanced out the window the moment a delivery driver has pulled up. I don’t want to look desperate when the doorbell gongs, so I like to hide for a few seconds to make it look like I’m a busy person getting on with my busy life. Sometimes I am a busy person going about my busy life, this poetry doesn’t write itself, you know. These things take time.

Bruce Grobbelaar held the ball tightly.
He sat in the thinning grass and curled around the ball.
Everyone was asking Bruce to give the ball back.
Bruce refused and insisted he wouldn't let go of the ball.
Everyone was getting upset and men were blowing whistles and gesticulating.

I’ll be honest with you, I only know who Bruce Grobbelaar is because he was on a Pog I found. Here’s the relevant information: Bruce Grobbelaar was a goalkeeper for Liverpool Football Club, referees carry whistles and blow them when things happen. Here’s some less relevant but still interesting information: Bruce Grobbelaar had a moustache.

"What about Paul Potts?" they said.
"What about Paul Potts?" he replied.
He didn't know who Paul Potts was.
He hoped he didn't give the game away.

I’ve decided this is the ‘People I Don’t Know’ section. I recall absolutely nothing about why this came up, but I remember looking up Paul Potts and finding out he was the winner of some talent show. Britain’s Got Talent, I’m reliably informed by Wikipedia. Hopefully he’s doing well. I hope he enjoys the poem if he ever finds it. Paul Potts was played by James Corden in a film I’m not sure anyone knows exists. Harvey Weinstein’s production company was involved.

A man sat twiddling his thumbs as he waited for his moustache to grow.
His thumbs got tangled in his moustache.
He was very good at growing his moustache.

I’ve known a few people with moustaches in my time. I can only assume, based on the timeframe, that this poem wasn’t inspired by any of them, but by none other than Bruce Grobbelaar. What a guy, what a moustache.

Barry stares at his timepiece (watch) for what feels like a good 30 seconds.
"Yes" he squeals "I've finally done it!"
He strips right down to the flesh and blasts off on a nudie run.
Things are flapping about everywhere.
He returns home ashamed and clutching a new battery.

If I could stop time, and everyone knew about my ability to stop time, all of my excuses for being late to everything would no longer be valid. I don’t think I’d like that.

"Surprise!" shouted the guests.
It was surprising.
The birthday boy was terrified.
He whipped the rifle off his shoulder and mowed down all of his friends.
The guests apologised.
They were leaking all over the floor.

I wrote this before anyone got shot at a surprise party. I’m fairly sure shortly after I wrote it pretty much this exact scenario showed up in the news. It wasn’t me.

The man threw punches at the air.
At least a dozen solid jabs so far today.
He'd had enough of the ghosts.
He hoped to show one who's boss.

People were very angry.
They held up signs.
They shouted quite a bit.
Some of the signs even had angry messages on them.

I’ve been to a few protests in my time, admittedly this was largely in an accidental capacity. You tend to stumble upon those things when wandering through city streets. If they’re carrying some agreeable placards I might make a beeline for the gang and stroll alongside them while they traverse in a convenient direction, hoping someone takes a picture so it looks like I actually made an effort, then it’s off to do musing for poetry.

The clown plugged his nose into his nose.
Applied his hair to his hair.
Then stared into the mirror and began to practice his laugh.
It was an evil laugh.
He'd had enough of the children.

I can’t recall a second of my life in which I thought clowns were fun. I remember random encounters with them, during which I always placed a trusted adult between myself and the odious character. There was one time a clown managed to breach the wall, I cried for about two weeks after he managed to get close to me. Clowns deserve all the hate they get, and then some. They’re all, without question, creeps.

Buzz hopped in his brand new spaceship and flew all the way to Mars.
The journey gave him plenty of time to enjoy several bags of crisps.
His landing kicked up a lot of dust.
Everything got dusty!
He sighed and began the trip back home for a vacuum cleaner.

Edith boards the bus and grips the handrail firmly.
The driver plants his foot and whizzes through the streets.
The bus leans through the corners and scrapes against parked cars.
She beams at the driver and whoops and cackles with joy.

The wizard mocked his friend.
Waggled a magical twig about.
He zapped his friend by mistake.
His friend turned into a frog!
The wizard apologised profusely and vowed to seek aid from a woman.
Adjusting his drooping spectacles he tried to recall the last woman he'd encountered.

Wizards are nerds. I once had a pet, that pet had a water bowl, that water bowl once had a frog in it. Frogs are quite repulsive, so I alerted housemates and evacuated. I have no idea what happened to the frog after that.

A man grabbed two fistfuls of sand and massaged them into his hair and face and chest.
"I want to be sandpaper"
He slathered his back and stared at the bottle.
"I want to be sandpaper" a third time "I want to be sandpaper!"
It was at that moment that he did not turn into sandpaper.

Peter squints hard at the cardboard box.
He closes his eyes and tries again.
Still just a box!
He was positive that thing used to turn into a racing car.

Imagining things doesn't really seem worth the effort these days. Imaginative people invented the television so no one else has to. And obviously even they'd had enough, otherwise they wouldn't have invented it in the first place.

The man jogged to the shop for some doughnuts.
He ate all the doughnuts on the walk home.
Occasionally sucking the sugar from his finger and thumb.
He waddled back to the shop to pick up a screwdriver
So he could remove the front door from its hinges and squeeze in.

My local supermarket sells doughnuts by the bag. It's a dangerous offering and I like to live life on the edge. Those doughnut bags and I have had many encounters.

Douglas belted out some Elvis Presley at the wedding.
The attendees gasped and desperately plugged their ears with bits of sausage and cheddar cubes and torn up shirt sleeves.
‘Clearly they're concerned all other voices would pale in comparison’
Thought Douglas.
He yodelled on powerfully into the microphone.

I once went to a wedding and I think I just about disliked everyone there, I'm not even sure how I ended up at the thing to be honest. I was served a fixed meal which contained none of what I wanted, and the bar was always rammed with people. All in all, an awful experience. I certainly won't be going to that wedding again. Although, now that I think about it, they might be divorced, so I suppose it's a possibility.