A WINNER

Not to be sexy
Can be attractive.
To be poised and elegant
But profoundly active.
Tall and graceful,
Not plump and curvy.
Dressed very tasteful.
Not thin and nervy.

Walking easily, talking gently.
Hair wafting breezily.
Not stepping from a Bentley.
No jewels or tattoos,
Not even discreetly.
Shoes pastel leather.
Gloves fitting neatly.

Political views controversial.
Activities strictly non-commercial.
Lovers? Just one steady.
When he calls, she’s ready.
Talented, but not conceited.
Her loving gestures
Often repeated.

In the winter stoical.
Throughout her life poetical.
Fair minded but not judgemental,
Religious, but not fundamental.
Hardworking. but loving fun.
Inside this poem,
It seems she has won!

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A MINOR POET

I’m a minor poet
Though often I’m inspired.
The gas bill we still owe it.
My evening dress is hired.

I’m a minor poet.
I write poems everywhere.
My dress I will not sew it.
That’s more than I could bear.

I’m a minor poet.
To versify is great.
Each seed of thought I grow it
And dinner has to wait.

I’m a minor poet.
Words structure in my mind.
I do not always know it
Where the ideas I find.

I’m a minor poet.
Few read my words and yet
I simply cannot throw it
Away without regret.

I’m a minor poet
Who rushes on and on,
But now I must forego it
And concentrate on John!

NOT YOU AGAIN!

Must we pay BT
To stop these nuisance calls
That interrupt our daily lives
So often that it galls?
These tele-sales voices
Trespass on our time.
Should their intrusion
Be treated as a crime?

We have no debts
Or credit cards, or a
House to sell
Nor do we want your survey
And yes, we do feel well.
The suppliers of our energy
Though not cheap will do
We do not want to waste time
Discussing them with you.

As for double glazing
We have it don’t you know
So tell your company
Far away to go.
No cheap flight holiday
Will tempt us from this city
We are not as gullable as was
Walter Mitty.

Living in the real world
Seems to be our fate.
Not winning TVs, cars
Or champagne by the crate.
Our lives may not be glamorous
But I am aware
This may sound rather smug.
HELLO! Are you still there!

THE COOK

I told my hostess I would cook,
But then I cut my hand.
So I went away to read a book.
I knew she’d understand.
Then arm-chaired with a nearby drink
I drank up all her gin.
“Her dress? What did I think?
I said she was too thin.

I stood up then on shaky knees,
Staggered across the floor.
Said, “Don’t mind me m’lady please.”
Walked out and banged the door.
Once on the gracious, lush, green lawn
A snail farmer gave chase.
He trod on my ancient corn.
I fell flat on my face!

“Oh! Mercy me! ” I cried aloud.
“I don’t deserve a friend
She’s really tried and done me proud.
I must be round the bend! ”
The snail farmer uttered a curse
Then marched off down the field.
Then to make matters worse
I rose staggered, and reeled.

Back to the house to find the Scotch
I lurched in through the door.
My hostess was keeping watch
And said there was no more.
“In that case ” I said in grief
“I’ll go back down the field.
The snail farmer will fill my glass
And to him I will yield!”

“You can’t!”, she cried
“How many gins have glamorised
his looks. I’ll find you gin
And Scotch as well!
Get back among your books!”

This was written to make Liz and John laugh while we
were staying in France. The Snail Farmer who lived next door,
we knew of, but never set eyes on!

PAST IT

Think about reality,
Not royalty.
Photos everywhere.
Pictures on the internet
In case we forget
Just how many clothes
They’ve got to wear.
And the ring!
That’s another thing,
Huge diamonds to flash.
Well, they’ve got the cash.
And smile with perfect teeth.
It’s beyond belief
Those images so beautiful
And their presence is called dutiful!
I have to admit
I like the glamour a bit,
But what about the poor?
They must wonder
What it’s all for,
The distance is so great.
But wait!
This is just sour grapes
For Harry escapes.
He belongs to Meghan today.
I’m too old for him anyway
My hair is grey!

LONDON SPARROW

“I’m flying about with my wings
Doing extraordinary things.
I sleep in the trees.
I ride on the breeze.
When I open my beak it sings!

Newspapers, beer cans and grott
Side line the pavements and rot
So I fly in the air
And pretend I don’t care
And I’m glad I can’t be what
I’m not!

I can’t be a dog or a cat.
Well I’m very pleased about that.
They may be stronger,
But their journeys take longer
And some of them live in a flat!

It’s more fun to sing as a bird
For some children know every word.
Though lorries grind past
And police sirens blast
And I have to side step a turd!

At dawn where the crimson sun rests
She glimmers a light on my breast.
A sea gull and I
Dive into the sky.
Now don’t ask me why.
Perhaps it’s because we are blessed.

Yes, I’m flying about with my wings
Doing extraordinary things.
I sleep in the trees.
I ride on the breeze.
When I open my beak –
It sings!”

THE PROUD CROW

There once was a crow who sang.
His song was very loud.
Each note perfectly rang,
But this crow was far too proud.
He was able to sing and sing
Until his voice just broke!
It is the strangest thing
For all he does now is croak!

His slow black wings flap by
Across the evening sun.
And all the sparrows cry,
“Look at him everyone!”
And all the sea gulls sigh
“Oh! What a silly twerp!”
And the leaves dance
Wondering why
The crow can’t even chirp.