The Charge of the Light Brigade

The Charge of the Light Brigade – did it exist?
Revisionists are to the fore.
They say that, in fact,
No criminal act
Took place in that terrible war.

They say things weren’t quite what they seem,
The sequence is somewhat unclear.
They deny the event
Had a criminal bent.
They claim that there’s no crime ‘ere.

Driving down an empty N3 at five o’clock in the morning

Is this the same road
That I’ve sat on and cursed?
Stuck behind a wide load
That can’t seem to find first?
The same road in the mornings
Where ‘slow’ is okay?
Where motoring warnings
Advise ‘keep away.’
The same road with lane-hoppers
That play double-dare?
Who’ll one day come croppers
On this thoroughfare?
The same road with folk bridling
And drumming their fingers?
Where engines are idling
And time slowly lingers?

Le Nom de Plume (de ma Tante)

She was quite a troubled young belle,
Who hailed from the city of Nîmes,
And I was a gay ne’er-do-well,
Far away from my home town of Sneem.

This bittersweet mademoiselle
Appeared in my life like a dream.
She told me her life was sheer hell,
Which I thought was a little extreme.

“Sue, c’est le nom qu’on m’appelle,”
She lied, as we sat by the stream.
And despite her untruths I still fell
For the mis’rable Sue de Nîmes.

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Writers Group homework - names or nicknames

Kilkenny

Photo: www.virtourist.com/europe/kilkenny/20.htm

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To the Cathedral church of St. Canice,
I wandered with Quarrelsome Janice.
To the top of the tower we ascended,
Where the views of the city were splendid.
But Quarrelsome Janice railed strenuously
‘Bout problems she raised disingenuously,
And soon she became quite hysterical,
Using language distinctly unclerical.
Now the foot of the tower of St. Canice’s
Is where the poor Quarrelsome Janice is.

Another Arts reception

It’s another Arts reception,
Clinking glasses red and white.
Another fraudulent deception
Full of navel-gazing shite.

Give me taties plain and filling,
Give me cabbage thick and green,
For this critic isn’t willing
To splash out for haut-cuisine.

Pubs with small alcoves

Pubs with small alcoves
And dimly lit corners
Should put up bright signs
Which specifically warn us
That finding the toilet
May be somewhat tricky
For people like me
Who have eyesight that’s dicky.

National Breast Day

It was today the breasts appeared
Aroused from winter’s slumber,
And how my inner heart was cheered!
A thousandfold in number.

For months, they’ve been locked out of sight,
Entombed in winter woollies,
But now they’ve burst into the light,
Those rounded hills and gullies.

No more encased in outerwear,
Encased in coats and fleeces,
They’re now exposed to sunlight’s glare
And dark abruptly ceases.

Big ones, small ones, ones that bounce
About on different levels.
Once the bishop would denounce
The flaunting of these devils,

But the first warm day of every year,
I reckon, is the best day.
The day when all the breasts appear –
Hats off to National Breast Day.

Poetry Festivals

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It’s a clique,
So to speak,
These august poetic readings,
If you’re in,
You can grin
And relax throughout proceedings.
If you’re part
Of the heart
Of the free verse literati,
Then you’ll know
Where to go
For the very latest party.
And it does
Not help us
On the outside dumb and jealous,
That you’re kind
And inclined
To be straight in what you tell us.
As we wait
By the gate
And we dally and we dither,
What we crave
Is a wave
And a nod that says come hither.
As I watch,
Sipping Scotch,
With my writing fingers trembly,
How I yearn
In my turn
To be part of the assembly.

Bank Holiday Monday

A day too rare
With thick warm air
And ne’er a cloud in sight.
No breeze dispels
Those cut-grass smells
And all is close and bright.

As in a trance,
The midges dance
Around my choc’late sundae.
Again, again,
I check for rain,
This May Bank Holiday Monday.

At the tree

To this tree I sadly wander,
Sit and in reflection squander
Many hours, in which I ponder
Life’s long road from birth to tomb.
Holly, swerving ‘pon that Honda
To this tree that spelt her doom.

‘Neath these branches, grandly spreading,
Watching leaves now lightly shedding,
Here I rest, on compost bedding,
Contemplating life anew,
Where we sat and planned our wedding
‘Ere that blast of chill wind blew.

Trees? Oh chop ‘em down and burn ‘em!
True, I started once to learn ‘em,
But this giant at my sternum
Could be alder, elm or yew.
Maybe cedar or laburnum –
Frankly, I don’t have a clue.

Holly, she was just my elder.
On a date I often held ‘er,
Took her palm and gently smelled ‘er
Perfume daubed upon her wrist.
Much more pop’lar than Imelda,
With whom I’d once had a tryst.

Unlike Olive, plane but tender,
Dad a Cypress moneylender,
Mam an Aspen gender-bender,
Hazel eyes and chest nut big.
Willowy she was and slender,
But she did not give a fig.

As I said to Rowan and Edward.
This ashen girl from Holyhead would
Go like any girl so red wood,
Spruce in imitation fir.
Now alas, she’s merely dead wood.
In her box, I think of her.

“Life’s a beech,” she told the vicar,
In a life like Alan Wicker,
But she was too fond of liquor
And missed the turn doing ninety four.
The bike was sick and I was sicker
But sadly she was sycamore.

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Another bash at the tree homework