My End-of-Term Report

a little plug (number 15); https://blog.feedspot.com/poetry_blogs/

*first three lines of every verse are from my primary school reports.

John has worked well throughout the year
Although he tends to dream at times.
Often puzzled by new ideas,
His poems, occasionally, lack acceptable rhymes.

He is beginning to come out of his shell
And this is mirrored by his general improvement.
A most likeable boy, he should do well.
Enjoys a tipple, keen to experiment.

Somewhat hesitant when expressing himself orally
He isn’t, by nature, very forward.
His letters well-formed, his written work’s neat and tidy
But when getting round to e-mails, he’s easily bored.

A slight thickness in speech (i.e. a lisp),
He’s a co-operative and pleasant member of the class.
He has a natural flair for language and shows great promise
Though, after twenty five years in Italy, he could roll his ‘R’s.

Breaking News

People are gate-crashing
the politicians’ world party
cracking open crates of ale
and raiding refineries for gallons of oil.

No one knows what fate awaits
the fleeing President of the Big United Mates
but it is believed, doing a bunk,
he may be in a bunker.

Ordinary people, in so many words,
have told leaders they’re a bunch of nerds.
No one knows their whereabouts
but wherever they are, they’re probably out.

Unconfirmed reports suggest it’s just a utopia
as the old flags burn and the new one flies.
Opticians, reeling from the unforeseen demand,
say revellers just can’t believe their eyes.

World At One

He or she shouts at him or her
You’re fucking useless!
which isn’t really fair,
Just their life’s a mess.

Everyone has their flaws
behind closed doors.
I got mine and you got yours.
Let’s live in peace.

T.V. War

Tin-pot dictators in palatial parliaments
have their people exit-poll in poverty
as democratic leaders on Speakers’ Corner
get on higher soapboxes for superiority.

Journalist cats get caught
by snuff movie makers talking in tongues
no-one understands, with notes
foreign newsreaders can’t read but call ransoms.

Bombs drop and regimes fall.
Truth is the prerogative of braggarts and liars.
All the allies furtively round the table
‘cos enemies don’t kill as many as friendly fire.

And You Can Quote Me On This

I’m not here to be right;
I’m not right.
I’m just here to right.
Right as in a wrong.

Or was it;

I’m not here to be right;
I’m not right.
I’m just here to write.
Right as in spelt wrong.

Or was it;

I’m not here to be right.
I am right.
I’m just here to write
Write as in what’s wrong.

Or was it;

I’m not here to be right.
I am right.
I’m just here to write.
Write as in I’m wrong.

Foreign Language Birds

A pigeon at the foreign languages faculty
goes to seagull classes out to sea.
As Flamingoes chip away for their exam in ‘Woodpecker up a Tree’
An exchange English crow gets French sparrow tutorials on the streets of gay Paris.

Greenfinches studying ‘Parrot’ do their best
as kingfishers get hooked on ‘Gold-crest’.
As model eagle students soar above the rest.
Mallard ducks take the plunge and take the ‘lesser swallow-tailed swift’ test.

Pelicans learn how to be robins with a Christmas term trip to a quaint little village
As wrens learn how to crane their necks for ‘Ostrich’.
Budgerigars try to gobble like turkeys fattened for the fridge.
Erasmus vultures steal like magpies on a steel bridge.

As birds of a feather flock together for a degree to migrate,
the owl-scholarly hierarchy hawks sit at the top of their perch; and deliberate.

St. Lucifer St.

She met him and he met her
on a street called saint lucifer.
But what they did wasn’t wicked;
just a pot of tea and the odd dunked biscuit.

Both would flirt with riskless danger
with childish dreams away in a manger.
She was hitched and so was he.
Both would talk of being free.

Neither of their partners knew
that every so often they shared a brew.
After all, it wasn’t betrayal.
Hardly a crime befitting of jail.

But what went down on Saint Lucifer Street
when one said it was better not to meet
left one of them feeling much the worse
with trust misplaced and a devilish curse.

Character Assassination

You can’t even see eye to eye
With yourself in your own mirror.
You don’t say goodbye
Till there’s nobody left to hear.

Every record you have jumps.
Can’t stutter without an impediment.
As a child missed out on mumps.
Paid a mortgage in rent.

Can’t remember names on christenings.
Every bill you get is wrong.
Can’t concentrate without listening.
Can’t sit down to dinner without a gong.

Can’t have a party without guests.
Can’t make a racket if it’s not a din.
You come off worse when doing your best.
Couldn’t get hit without an assassin.

ever the optimist

There used to be balloons.
Rotating girls in revolving skirts to spiralling tunes.
There were stain glass windows in kaleidoscopes.
Climbing acrobats and daisy chain ropes.

There used to be rivers of streets running to the city’s gaping mouth
and compass boats blown like ticker tape south.
There were jugglers and minstrels and jukebox sky-scraping towers.
There used to be heart-beds made of flowers.