Category: Rhyming

Straining Credulity by David O’Neill


By admin

The morning after the night before,
I left my carapace on the floor
As instar five followed instar four—
No metamorphosis here.

As entomologists rightly state,
We exopterygotes thus gestate
And Kafka’s travesties truly grate
On every schoolboy’s ear.

David O’Neill is a frustrated mathematician who has journeyed through a predominantly life-science-based medical landscape for most of his mortgage-paying professional life, eventually finding salvation in the Open University, too close to the end for practical application but sufficiently early for peace of mind and poetic inspiration.

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Bravissima by Sherri Turner


By admin

I’ve never been blessed
with a bountiful chest
so to offer some zest
to my pitiful breast
today I got dressed
in a garment that pressed
on each fleshy crest
till they both pointed west.
It made a nice nest
on which someone could rest
but I still worried lest
the result of my quest
was an increase in jest
when I sadly confessed.

So I gave up the test
and went back to my vest.

Sherri Turner lives in Surrey. She has had numerous short stories published in women’s magazines and has won prizes for both poetry and short stories. She likes to write silly poems when she feels in danger of forgetting that this is supposed to be fun.

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The Oxfordshire Smug by Judi Sutherland


By admin

(After Edward Lear)

In your Barbour coat do you garden all day
and go out gathering nuts in May
in a TRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you have a thing for the great Outdoors
and go out walking your Labradors
or the PUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

In the gastropub when you go to dine
Do you yell in the bar as you quaff your wine
or the SNUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

At parties in your Orangery
do you liberally let the Bolly flow free
or the KRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you name your children Piers and Jocasta
so their modelling jobs will take off faster?
you MUG!
the Oxfordshire Smug.

In Regatta week do you swig champagne
or use fifty pound notes to snort cocaine
as a DRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

At Christmas time do you give your cleaner
a gift of your wife’s cast-off pashmina
or SHRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you cruise the lanes in your four by four
speeding because you’re above the law
you THUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

On Sundays, after you’ve sung your hymns
do you sit outside with a glass of Pimm’s
or a JUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

At festivals, scoffing from Harrods deli
do you strut your stuff in a Hunter wellie
or UGG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you loll on the chintz with your horsey arse
and secretly sneer at the working class?
you SLUG!
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Judi Sutherland is a poet, formerly resident near Henley on Thames, now living in Barnard Castle, Durham. She is the proprietor of The Stare’s Nest and organiser of the Fledgling Award for debut pamphlets by poets over 40.

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Best Friends by Karen Jones


By admin

Engaging you in conversation
makes me contemplate
defenestration

Because

Your twisted interpretation
of my words causes
frustration

And

Your constant evocation
of past errors is
provocation

For

the sweet anticipation
of your complete
obliteration

So

If you require elucidation
let me provide this
explanation:

Fuck

(no more prevarication
obliqueness or
obfuscation)

You

Karen Jones is from Glasgow. Her poetry has been published at Every Day Poets, her fiction many places, including Mslexia, WWJ, Bath Anthology and Writers Forum. Her anthology, The Upside-Down Jesus and other stories, is available from Amazon.

 

Foxes Don’t Wear Gloves by Emily Koch


By admin

My shrink says that when I feel blue
what I need is a deep breath of green –
that there’s “truth in the beauty of nature”,
and besides, it’s a nice change of scene.

Problem is, I’ve got issues with trust.
I’m suspicious of people (and things)
who pretend to be something they’re not
to cover up lies, thefts and flings.

So when I went out in the country
with a guide to show me this from that,
I soon realised most plants were liars,
and their fraud sparked a panic attack.

Lamb’s Ear, Monkey’s Nose and Bear’s Foot
do not pass for the organs of beasts.
Bat’s wings are not green with red berries –
I was the fool in yet another deceit.

Cupid flies, so his car is redundant,
if a hare had a bell he would ring it,
I’m yet to see a fox wearing gloves
or a cow tease a bull in her slip.

Like hell is there truth out in nature –
plants lie just as well as the rest.
Stuff my shrink and his deep breath of green,
a stiff gin’s all I need when depressed.

Emily Koch is a writer and journalist living in Bristol. She writes short stories, flash fiction and poetry and recently finished her first novel.

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