Some Lewis Carroll Inspired Poetry

I’ve been working on some Lewis Carroll audiobooks recently, and it inspired me to write a bit of Carroll-esque nonsense poetry.  Here it is, I hope you like it!

 

“Bring Forth My Gyres”

 

Where are they now

Those insatiable needs

Of mome raths and gimbles

And men made of cheese

 

Of yesterday’s mermaids

And low flying goths

Those rampaging mimsies

And full-frontal moths

 

The hearing and sharing

Of obstinate corn

With unquenching framules

And corkscrewing horn

 

Of lobsang and earhole

And marmalade seats

The nearness of oblongs

The left-handed pleats

 

Oh where are they now

Those irrational lords

The insides of normal

And rear-facing hordes

 

Bring forth my gyres

And my oft-quoted toes

Return then your jumstones

This journeyman goes

 

Poetry Time Again – “Where’s My Nose?”

An oldie but surreal goodie from my first collection of poems many years ago:

WHERE’S MY NOSE?

I looked behind the fridge for an entire morning,
And then I spent the afternoon searching through the awning.
I hunted through the loft and eves,
And then behind the Yucca plant leaves.
I called my mate Pete and asked for a hand
He arrived with Dave and Chris who were in a band.
Between us we laboured to search the house
And all we found was a heavily inebriated mouse.

“For Jake’s sake,” decried Pete “we’ll never find it!”
“Where was it last,” asked Chris, “can you recall even that wee bit?”
I thought long and hard, about the past day
Where I’d been and with who, those I dare say,
Could have seen me with it, or at least have an idea
Not originating from their rear!

And then I remembered the chap on the train,
Short and fat, lean and crisp and certainly under strain.
He’d told me a sorry tale about some cats
Alone and bored and terrorising several flats.
I’d sat and listened through his sorry tale
And when he’d finished I asked what could be done to curtail
These annoying pussies, all noisy and wet
Surely take them to some home for wayward pets.
“No,” he’d explained. “They require a human nose,
For payment to their masters, the Mafia Crows.
Can I have yours, “ he then asked with aplomb,

“WHAT?” I exploded, with vim, vigour and somewhat like a bomb.
“My nose, dear sir, is mine and mine alone”

And with that I closed my eyes and ears, clearly stating “No one home”.
When I awoke at East Croydon station the chap was missing
Along with my briefcase, my kebab and my Riesling.
But what shocked me most as it goes,
Was the fact that the cad had removed my nose.
Quite painlessly and with some style
And he’d left me cash in payment, quite a pile.
Pete and Chris and Dave looked shocked
Their mouths wide open their jaws firmly locked.
“So my nose isn’t lost, it’s a trophy for some Mafia Crows
A peace offering from wet pussies in flats like those.”
I pointed through the window across the road
In time to see a dark bird fly past under some nasal load,
Straight into a hellfire of bullets and lead
The damp pussies tired of paying homage shot off his head

And my nose now fell many feet to the ground
Where it lay there for a moment safe and sound,
Until an artic driven by killer Pandas ran it over
On their way to help give the pussies extra cover.
“Another damn animal war, it looks like,”
“Yup. Never seem happy those guys, hey it’s Mike!”

The leader of the local Tong Marmosets strolled by
All cool and calm and no-one shot, nor even try
And Mike picked up my flat nose and walked this way
Like Steve Tyler in fur he confidently called out to say,
“Neil, here’s your nose, we no need it no more, OK”
And that was that, the shooting stopped and all was well. Nice.

Dedicated to @Twistedlilkitty over twitter way!!

The Poetry Pirate in HD!

OK, the Poetry Pirate has used a few of his pieces of eight and bought an HD camcorder.  Let’s see if the higher resolution helps with the appalling poetry?!

Just clicky the HD button to see it in full HD…don’t be scared 🙂

The Poetry Pirate Has Boarded!

He’s a pirate…he reads poetry…come on people, it’s not that hard to understand!!!  Here’s his first foray into the poetry reading world…”The Quest”…

Who Is David Bowie?

You can hear “Who Is David Bowie?” being read by legendary comedian Arthur Smith by clicking on the Box widget at the top right of the page.

David Bowie in Labyrinth

“So who is this David Bowie, then” asked pater one day,
As we communicated via telepathy over a bourbon biscuit.
“He sang songs about spacemen, laughing gnomes and Ziggy Stardust” I explained,
As pater decided that dunking was something bad and didn’t risk it.

“So his contribution is mainly lyrical?” questioned pater,
Over a large herbal tea and some custard creams.
“He also plays saxophone, guitar and keyboards” defended I,
As pater resumed his holy trinity jigsaw and mater mended my trouser seams.

“So this David Bowie has made a worthwhile contribution to society?” determined pater,
As I hurriedly drew a close to my communications with Elvis, the King.
“Certainly pater.  His use of harmonies and wind instruments in modern pop is highly regarded”,
And with that pater called his hired assassin and cancelled the contract stating this such thing.

“Where’s My Nose?!”

A return to some silly poetry for you…and you can also hear the poem being read by infamous Canadian actor Kerry Shale by clicking on the Box widget at the top right of the page!

“Where’s My Nose?!”

I looked behind the fridge for an entire morning,
And then I spent the afternoon searching through the awning.
I hunted through the loft and eves,
And then behind the Yucca plant’s leaves.

I called my mate Pete and asked for a hand,
He arrived with Dave and Chris who were in a band.
Between us we laboured to search the house,
And all we found was a heavily inebriated mouse.

“For Jake’s sake,” decried Pete “we’ll never find it!”
“Where was it last,” asked Chris, “can you recall even that wee bit?”

I thought long and hard, about the past day,
Where I’d been and with who, those I dare say,
Could have seen me with it, or at least have an idea,
Not originating from their rear!

And then I remembered the chap on the train,
Short and fat, lean and crisp and certainly under strain.
He’d told me a sorry tale about some cats,
Alone and bored and terrorising high rise flats.

I’d sat and listened through his sorry tale,
And when he’d finished I asked what could be done to curtail,
These annoying pussies, all noisy and wet,
Surely take them to some home for wayward pets.

“No,” he’d explained.  “They require a human nose,
For payment to their masters, the Mafia Crows.
Can I have yours, “ he then asked with aplomb…
“WHAT?” I exploded, with vim, vigour and somewhat like a bomb.
“My nose, dear sir, is mine and mine alone”
And with that I closed my eyes and ears, clearly stating “No one home”.

When I awoke at East Croydon station the chap was missing,
Along with my briefcase, my kebab and my Riesling.
But what shocked me most as it goes,
Was the fact that the cad had removed my nose.
Quite painlessly and with some style,
And he’d left me cash in payment, quite a pile.

Pete and Chris and Dave looked shocked,
Their mouths wide open their jaws firmly locked.

“So my nose isn’t lost, it’s a trophy for some Mafia Crows,
A peace offering from wet pussies in flats like those…”
I pointed through the window across the road,
In time to see a dark bird fly past under some nasal load,
Straight into a hellfire of bullets and lead,
The damp pussies tired of paying homage shot off his head!

And my nose now fell many feet to the ground,
Where it lay there for a moment safe and sound,
Until a lorry driven by killer Pandas ran it over,
On their way to help give the pussies extra cover.

“Another damn animal war, it looks like!”
“Yup.  Never seem happy those guys, hey look, it’s Mike!”

Yes, Mike, the leader of the local Tong Marmosets strolled by,
All cool and calm and no-one shot, nor even try,
And Mike picked up my flat nose and walked this way,
Like Steve Tyler in fur he confidently called out to say,
“Neil, here’s your nose, we no need it no more, OK”

And that was that, the shooting stopped and all was well.

Nice.

A Gal With Large…

While FICTS have been taking centre stage I’ve held off posting daily poems…but I thought it would be nice to pop one up every now and again.  So here’s one about those formative years, and the joy of relationships!

"Hummana hummana hummana!"

“A Gal With Large…”

When I was at school, all I desired
Was the girl with the large breasts the others admired.
I’d sit there in class, with a grin on my chops
Alone with my thoughts, and her fab golden tops!

And then as the years passed, I looked deeper still,
A gal with large breasts and a “need” I could fill.
Emotional longings, and urges as well,
My gal with large breasts came out of her shell.

And then came my teen years, all acne and smells,
My gal with large breasts was a beast come from hell.
Our love grew like ulcers, all cankerous sores,
I found it a turn on to lick clean her pores.

But now we’ve both grown up, our urges quite tame.
I look at her breasts and she puts me to shame.
For after the teen years and some time in jail,
My gal with large breasts is actually…MALE!

The Quest

Let's Go Quest!

“The Quest”

Five brave men set out one fine day
On four horses and a frog
A perilous quest before them lay
With trees and sheep and a bog

By the end of the first long week’s toil
The five had reduced down to four
Due in no small part to a boil
That itched, then became far too sore

Then just three brave men were left standing
Three men two horses and the frog
One man had fallen while crouching
Into the aforementioned bog

By summer two men stood at a gate
Bewildered and scared and lost
Their friend they’d used as bait
To ensnare a wild beast made of frost

The quest was now down to its last man
A brave but foolhardy soul
Who while hiding in a sack of bran
Was eaten by a grumpy big mole

So surely the quest was now over
It’s mission end nowhere in sight
When up stepped the frog named Rover
To sally forth and fight the good fight

And eighteen months to the very day
Since the brave party had left
Rover the frog returned with his pay-
load of gold, and was accused then of theft

Bugger!

Thinking of Dogs

That's a lot of dogs!

“Thinking of Dogs”

Sometimes when I think of dogs
I forget their names and picture frogs.
I’m sure there’s one called Stan
All big and black, belongs to Fran.
And then there’s Rover
Likes to bite, so don’t bend over!
Of course, we all know Andy,
The three legged Cocker-Randy.
And wee little Flo,
A Picanese with bits to show.
But then when I think of dogs
Or frogs or logs or smelly warthogs
My thoughts always stray
To a special place, a special day.
A Labrador puppy named Kyle,
My best mate Steve, a farm and a style.
Into the fields of corn we ran,
We three, like Sancho Panza, man!
Through the wheat, the wind up high,
Kyle’s barking, Steve’s cry…
The Combine Harvester, so fast,
Looming over me, breathing my last.
Then Kyle’s bark and wild leap,
My tumble, my fall into a heap.
The sound of squelching…
Melching…
Munching…
Crunching…
Yelping…
Barking…no more!
So now I think of dogs,
Sometimes frogs but rarely bogs.
And I think sometimes of Kyle,
Who died a death of some style.
And when I eat my bowl of cornflakes,
I hear the scream, I hear the brakes,
And I always make sure to look close,
For a bit of paw or maybe some nose!

N.B. You can hear “Thinking of Dogs” read by Radio 4 legend John Waite by clicking on the POETRY AUDIO widget at the top right of this page.

A Life of Crime

Dave the Lime!

“A Life of Crime”

“It’s mine all mine!” cried Dave The Lime
Living his life, a life of crime.

“A dime’s a dime in a life of crime!”
Dave the Lime felt fine, just fine.

“You’ll be tasting brine” said Boss Man Kline
“Unless you return that dime that’s mine!”

So Lime lost the dime from crime to Kline
But avoided being known as Lime in brine!

The Ambidextrous One-Armed Fool

Erm...has someone left an arm?

“The Ambidextrous One-Armed Fool”

Such skill he showed when playing away
Such talent while saving the day
Such abilities he had, and so tough
Such an ego, so it was never enough

Experiments led to his downfall disgrace
Experiments left him a twisted waste
Experiments deprived him of one half of a pair
Experiments continued with hardly a care

And now he struggles with only one-arm
And now he fights on yet doing such harm
And now he must prove to everyone again
And now he’s perceived as one of the ‘useless’ men

“But I can still use both hands!” he insists
“But I know just how ridiculous it sounds,
But I know I have the ability and skill
But I see that you sit there and pity me still.”

Now he’s alone and all others have gone
Now he’s alone with all experiments done
Now he’s alone, forever, once and for all
Now he’s just an ambidextrous one-armed fool

Fred Dineage 1-2-3

N.B. I wrote this poem for Peter Jones (the voice of the book in the Hitch-hiker’s Guide To The Galaxy) to perform, but sadly he passed away before we had the chance to do it.  It was written with his tone of voice, turn of phrase and love of surreal word play in mind…hence the surreal end result!  Do check out the reading of it by John Wait, who I think is as close to the late, great Peter Jones as we can ever hope to get!

Fred with his How2 co-presenters Gareth Jones & Gail McKenna

“Fred Dineage 1-2-3”

I was interested to learn, or actually discover
The secret to eternal youth and prosperity.
I had heard from a man sporting an incredibly orange beard
That the best route to follow was “The Way of Fred”.

Ah yes, dear Fred, of the Dineage dynasty,
A man wanted in more states than Elvis.
Surely he would have the answer to life’s wee small questions,
Or at least some nice cake and a hot cup of tea.

So I travelled and roamed and sought the wisdom of Fred
And I looked and I hunted all day and all night.
And just when I thought I should head home for tea
Fred appeared, like a man made of right smelly cheese.

“Oh Fred”, I declared in an Anne Summers voice
“What’s the secret to life immemorial…and big cash?”

And he looked down upon me, for up on a ladder was he
And spewed forth the following load of old cobblers…

“The things that you seek, O’Anne Summers voiced one,
Are things not to be sought by your type at this time,
Come back after I’ve finished painting this drain,
And I’ll have a think and see what I can find.”

So back home I headed, but stopped off at the pub
And downed several stiff little fingers of fudge.
And returned forthwith with forths and several small dogs
As a gesture of faith and possibly something to Bar-B-Q later.

Ding dong, went Fred’s doorbell, for it was I who pressed it,
And there stood the Fred, dressed in gingham and lace.
He handed me a note, simple plain and effective,
Then slammed the damn door on my foot, the one with the in-grown toenail!

As I hobbled my way to the A&E ward, I read forth from the note he’d delivered.
On it was written instructions and what also appeared to be
A recipe for strudel and onions, some shopping and a doodle
Of Carol Vorderman in some nice S&M gear…leather not the plastic crap that gives you right sore areas later!

After getting my poor foot bandaged and cared for,
I dove headfirst into the super whizz-bang contrivance…or Fiesta,
And raced forth into overdrive to the place Lord Dineage had suggested
I looked for the answer to my ineffable questions.

And do you know where I was?

Can you guess at my location?

Would you believe me if I told you?

Could you grasp the enormity?

I don’t think you can, or could, or would, or might…

So I’m not gonna tell you.

But if you see Fred, or Lord Dineage himself,
Say thanks and maybe offer him a McVities Jaffa Cake from me.

N.B. You can hear “Fred Dinage 1-2-3” being read by the legendary Radio 4 broadcaster and journliast John Waite by clicking on the POETRY AUDIO widget at the top right of this page.

Complicated Carrots

Some Complicated Carrots!

“Complicated Carrots”

Twelve of them came out of the secret army base,
Two pairs of six or six pairs of two.
Each had two ears, a nose and a face,
All had a name, and that name was Sue.

Unveiled by the General the twelve stood proud,
Ten in their uniforms, two in white lab coats.
The cheering went on for an hour, incredibly loud,
While the twelve rode off in their green army boats.

Six of the twelve remained and worked for the army,
Four of them launched their own dot com.
The other two married, had kids, acted barmy,
When the President ordered they be killed by a bomb.

The twelve, plus four kids, ran off to the hills,
To plot and scheme Machiavellian plans.
Their time in the forces had taught them great skills,
Even though they’d be born without any hands!

So where is the group of complicated carrots?
Are we safe from their wrath and revenge?
Maybe they’ve mutated into bright orange parrots?
Or they’ll become the mere stuff of weird legend?!

Hmmmm…makes you think, eh?

Butter…and then some more!

What a nice old farmhouse!

“Butter…and then some more!”

I enjoyed my stay in the farmhouse,
Just me, and Bertie and Lisa and her pet mouse.
We’d play by the old mill-pond
Bertie was Blofeld and I’d be Bond.

Lisa kept to herself up in the farmhouse,
She’s sit around and play with her pet mouse.
Meanwhile outside beside the old gravel pit
Bertie and I would lay on our backs and spit.

As the summer ground on and the farmhouse got warm
Lisa appeared from out of our dorm.
Her pet mouse, his name was something like Clover
Was quickly eaten up by the old farmdog Rover.

I enjoyed my stay in the farmhouse,
Just me, and Bertie and Lisa and her dead pet mouse.
I’d be a vicar, Bertie was Yul Brynner
Lisa mourned as Clover became Rover’s Sunday dinner.

N.B. You can hear “Butter…and then some more!” being read by Radio 4 legendary broadcaster John Waite by clicking in the POETRY AUDIO widget at the top right of this page!

Small Glowing Hand/Glove Combo

Suspicious Glowing Gloves!

“Small Glowing Hand/Glove Combo”

It floated there before me
Defying physics and scientific hokum.
Made of felt and glittery, see?
From another planet it had come.

Did it come in peace I asked
Why did it glow so fantastically?
Should I run, could I be arsed
And would it probe me scientifically?!

It glowed and floated, alone in it’s thoughts
A single half of a pair of something sinister.
Lord only knows what here it sought,
So at that point I called up the Minister.

Government bods and gents of suit
Sallied forth and soon had things under control.
And by noon I was given the Whitehall boot
Too lowly to be needed in any further role.

And now, 20 years have passed by
The world is run by alien hand/glove combos.
And I must say, I did at least try
To fight back with my super atomic toes.

I failed!

Something’s Coming!

Something's Coming!

“Something’s Coming”

I feel the rumble
See concrete crumble
I see the light
Through the night
I hear the sound
Feel the shaking ground
I think it’s almost here
Should I fear?

…

…

…

“Please mind the gap.”

…

Typical, it’s just the tube!

Bing Bong

Press that doorbell!

“Bing Bong”

“Can I interest you, sir, in some fine antique stamps?”
Asked the man who stood inside my porch
“Or maybe some hand crafted dream catching things,
Or this durable all-plastic torch?

“I see you’re a man of discerning fine taste
So I’ll bother you not with these nick knacks,
Instead can I show you our exciting new range
Of disposable hand-crafted backpacks?

“Or maybe instead I can grab your attention
By divulging the contents of my briefcase
Each item you’ll see is a one of a kind
And all hand-crafted, so you should certainly make haste!

“Alright, sir, I see by that look on your face
That you have no time for such surplus fancies
So I’ll cut to the chase and go in for the kill
Will you buy some hand-crafted Scout cookies?”

I bought ten, I think they were cinnamon.

Small Town AND Slap Happy

Due to a clerical error for which my personal assistant will be beaten mercilessly with a stick of celery, a daily poem did not appear yesterday.  AND SO, as a once in a lifetime opportunity, I now present TWO poems on ONE day.  This should not need to happen again, but if it does, well, we’ll just have to come up with some vaguely plausible excuse, won’t we.  So let us start with a short little one that won’t offend anyone…

Small Town Lake

“Small Town”

Small town by lakeside
The postcard did proudly cry
But when I arrived
No lake did I espy.

It seemed the card had been mistaken
Or the order had been badly taken
For not only was there no lake present
There was no small town from which the card could be sent

…and now a not-so-short one which will probably offend everyone, or make them laugh, or bore them, something like that…

Well Slappa-My-Face!

“Slap Happy”

Go on, hit me with that glove
Go on, hit me hard, prove your love.
Go on, spank me with that plank
Go on, excite me ‘til I w….er, crank!

I love the way you dominate
In leather and studs, you desire to hate,
And then you demand my obedience
Your whip hand dishing out leathern guidance.

Go on, smack me ‘til my backside burns
Go on, smack me ‘til this bad boy learns.
Go on, cheese-grate my various unmentionables
Go on, taunt me ‘coz I’m so impressionable.

I’d love one day to turn the tables
And tie you up, gag and bound in stables,
I’d be the jockey with whip in hand
I’d teach you hard and you’d understand.

But you’re the boss, and I need punishment
You strike me down and now I’ve learnt,
You are my leather clad dominatrix life
Who’d have thought by day…I’m the vicar’s wife?

N.B. You can hear “Slap Happy” being read by legendary comedian Arthur Smith, and uber talent Tamsyn Challenger by clicking on the POETRY AUDIO box at the top right of the page.

Enticed By Sprinkles

Those darned sprinkles!

“Enticed By Sprinkles”

One, two – just a few,
(They jazz up my pudding)
Three, four – just a few more,
(Come on, they’re only small)
Five, six – I need my fix,
(Seriously, I can handle it, man)
Seven, eight – just fill the damn plate…
(Don’t stop me, I NEED them)
Nine, ten – help me friend!
(I’m addicted to these damn things)
Eleven, twelve – it’s time to remove…
(This monkey, my back needs a rest)

Aaaarrggghhh!

GIVE ME SPRINKLES!

SPRINKLES…NOW….please…I need them…please…

Sprinkles…sprinkles…sprinkles…sprink…les………………..

NOW!!!!!

Nooooooooooooo!  BRING THEM BACK!

….my sprinkles…

One, two – not even a few,
Three, four – no need no more,
Five, six – three weeks since my last hits,
Seven, eight – I don’t hate you, don’t hate,
Nine, ten – is this a new beginning?
Eleven, twelve – my sprinkles now shelved!

Scary By Nature

Boo!

“Scary By Nature”

“Boo,” said the nurse
And patient 17 died.

“Boo,” said the plumber,
And Mrs Davidson cried.

“Boo,” screamed wee Billy Turnip,
And got a slap because he’d lied.

N.B. You can hear “Scary By Nature” read by Radio 4 legend John Waite by clicking on the Poetry Audio box at the top right of the page.

Tumble Dryer Toot

Talking Toot with a Tumbler!

“Tumble Dryer Toot”

Watch the socks go sailing by,
Or see the T-shirts flying high,
Don’t miss the mis-matched tartan ties,
Or tumbling trousers with unzipped flies.

Sit and stare at the shifting shirts,
And gaze serenely at the scanty skirts,
Avoid not the filigree of ladies finest fare,
Be awed at the posing of pants in a pair.

Well spent is an hour with a tumble dryer,
It certainly beats a conversation with a deep fat fryer,
Just do bear in mind this rule, short not long,
Make sure before you start that you’ve turn the damn thing on!

Sun-Gold Flock

The Yellow Buses of Malta

“Sun-Gold Flock”

Like a flock of sun-gold flamingoes
They swarm around the fountain now dry,
Some shiny new, others in death throes
The journey may be hard but they’ll try.

All at once the flock takes wing and leaves
As one they make haste and depart,
Squawking and screeching the sound weaves
I watch, transfixed, full of heart.

Each one’s destination is different
Yet the flock knows where to return,
To far off location the individuals are sent
On a wing and a prayer, but no concern.

They’re back now, all yellow and noisy
Surrounding me they nest and roost,
At night they lie warm, snug and cosy
Before another day’s flock is let loose.

N.B. On the island of Malta, there is a quite magnificent public bus service comprising several hundred yellow buses, which all start and end their journeys around a fountain at the capital city Valletta.  It was while sitting watching these buses back in 2003 that I got the inspiration for this poem.

Tempting Timmy

Dangerous Temptation!

“Go on Timmy.  Try it, it’s fun.”
But Timmy knew better.

“Go on Timmy.  Take it for a run.”
But Timmy was no go-getter.

“Go on Timmy.  See if it’ll fit.”
But Timmy was a real toff.

“Go on Timmy.  See if it’s still lit.”
And Timmy had his stupid face blown off.

Idiot!

N.B. You can hear “Tempting Timmy” read by Radio 4’s Peter White by clicking on the file in the Poetry Audio box at the top right of this page.

Fudge By Numbers

Lovely Fudge

“Fudge By Numbers”

I was told it would be easy
By the man in the third cubicle from the left near the door marked EXIT.
“Just like 1-2-3,” he said
As though a small dog were chewing on his ankle.

But I found, not to my complete surprise, that, in fact it was
More like X-Y-Z.
“Bloody typical,” I shouted at the man who was washing behind the potted plants.
But then, isn’t everything?

N.B. You can hear “Fudge By Numbers” read by poetry legend Roger McGough OBE by clicking on the poem in the POETRY AUDIO box at the top right of this page.

Inside The Golden Fleece

The Mythical Golden Fleece

“Inside The Golden Fleece”

“Reporting live from the poop deck
Of the leading ship of the fleet,
I see before us a disturbing wreck
And the rocks upon which it did meet.”

“We’re here live with the Captain,
Jason, tell us how you are feeling,
As the crew calls for us to return,
Does this change in events leave you reeling?”

“You join us now at an exciting time
As the crew is fighting some skeletons.
I see Jason attempting his crime,
He’s stolen the fleece and off he runs!”

“Before we leave I’d just like to say
What a pleasure it’s been to be here this week.
Jason’s kindly agreed that he’ll play
A drum solo on the skull of a Greek!”

“This is Bobocles reporting for Mythological News Today.”