Magic Poetry
A magician shuffled his deck of cards.
He inspected the cards and shuffled again.
And again.
The magician panicked.
He'd picked up the wrong deck.
The children were getting restless.
They began to throw paper clips, elastic bands, and freshly sharpened pencils.
As a child I spent some time at school, while there I encountered the unfortunate circumstance of having the head of the operation grow a magician for a child. This was unfortunate for both of us, of course. Not only did the chief of school have to deal with a magician being forced into their life, I was burdened with it too. I’d be sitting there, cross-legged in a hall, watching this magician knock out his inane tricks, and the head would be there in the background, wondering how they fumbled the whole parenting thing so badly. It’s no surprise my life hasn’t turned out particularly great if you think about it, that person who raised a magician was charged with operating a school. Absolutely hopeless.
A couple went camping i the forest.
The ordeal started off fairly romantic.
Days passed.
Squirrels began stealing their supplies.
They began to blame each other.
They began to hate each other.
They began to stink.
I gave camping a shot once. I wouldn’t describe the event as spectacular. I spend most of the time missing running water, and toilets. I learned a lot about myself while camping. Things like I’m not great without access to clean running water and toilets.
The jockey buttered his horse.
He wanted it to glide over the jumps.
He buttered the wrong side!
His saddle slipped off at the start gate.
The jockey sat on the grass sobbing into his buttery legs.
Frankie Dettori famously buttered his horses before all the big horse races everyone knows about in his career. Post-race he’d often source a baguette, bisect the loaf, and encourage his winning horse to mount the bread before attempting to take a bite. Thankfully handlers always got there before he achieved his goal. As a result, Frankie Dettori has never taken a bite out of his prize winning horses.
The village made everything as bland as possible.
They feared the devil.
This poem is too clever for its own good, really. I don’t think anyone should like it, but people are allowed to like whatever they want these days. So if you like it, that’s fine, I just don’t think you should. But again, to reiterate, you can like it if you want to.
The man came to the bridge.
He wasn't too sure about all of this.
He decided to take the long way instead.
Another one of those.
Biscuit guy finished a whole load of biscuits.
The crumb filled plate attracted a bird to the window.
The bird pecked at the glass.
“Give me all of your crumbs there buddy” the bird spoke.
The fearful man stared right into the bird's beady eyes.
These eyes were held in place by a colossal feathery body.
“I said give me all them crumbs” its squawks were being translated through a curious voice box.
The bird kept pecking away at the window.
Its friends were starting to join in too.
I don’t like birds. I do like biscuits. If someone offered me a plate of biscuits, I would accept without a second thought, but questions would fly if they approached with a plate of birds. I have no time for the beasts, and birds seem to have little time for humans. That’s why they have wings and we don’t. We can both go about our lives while keeping interactions to the bare minimum.
The pet owl escaped.
It was out and about hooting all night.
People could hear the hooting through their windows.
They couldn't get to sleep.
They weren't pleased with the owl's owner at all.
I’m reasonably confident that owls are also birds, so much of what I said above applies to this. Should it turn out that owls are not birds, I’ll come back and fill this in later. I don’t own a copy of Encyclopaedia Britannica though, so it might be a while.
The receptionist sat at her desk.
Her name was Ariel.
She cried herself to sleep that night.
This is a sad poem about a woman named Ariel who isn’t particularly happy with her life at the moment. The only other Ariel I know is that mermaid from under the sea, I don’t think they have desks under the sea, not unless a cargo ship has had a particularly bad day anyway. Suddenly, I find myself remembering the Titanic, which probably had a few desks on board. Anyway, this Ariel is of no relation to that mermaid one.
A woman twisted some paper.
It formed into the word ‘love’.
It was all very meaningful.
She looked at it and cried.
She twisted thousands more.
And sold them on the internet.
Robert gazed into Paula’s eyes.
They were framed beautifully by her glasses.
Hair framed the rest of her face too.
Her nose pointed down to her lips.
They were nice lips.
'Yes' Robert thought, pumping his first in celebration.
'She has a face.'
Percy told Helen she was the best.
His fingers were crossed.
He looked into her eyes.
He knew he was the best.
I knocked out a few poems about love there, or love adjacent goings on. You know that sort of stuff. Real life stuff for real people.
Santa slumped in a crusty leather armchair.
His beard was unkempt and filled with crumbs.
He was getting more and more irritated by how late people were leaving their requests.
The elves were complaining about the yearly crunch.
Rudolph sat in the corner licking the woodchip wallpaper.
His antlers clacked against the television.
Poor old Santa, his job sounds like a nightmare. I wouldn’t have signed up if given the opportunity, I don’t care if I get free access to houses out of it, the thrill of the snoop just isn’t worth the effort.
I’m going to leave you with that little christmassy number, which hopefully gets you in the mood for the season. In keeping with tradition, I’m also going to recommend you, maybe, if you like, take a look back at August 2019 with your own eyes. This time I mean it too, I left out quality poetry, there’s at least a couple more good ones dwelling back there in the old Aug of 19.
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