Category: Rhyming

The Thief of Rhyme, by Sandra Bond


By Robert Garnham 
THE THIEF OF RHYME


One morning in the summertime
I ran into the Thief of Rhyme.
I said “Good day” and “how’d’ye’do?
I’m Sandra Bond, and who are you?”

He grinned at me, and showed his teeth,
And said “Of rhyme I am the thief;
I steal from poets every day,
And then their rhymes all go to hell.”

I found, alas, that it was so;
My rhymes were gone, I had no more,
I couldn’t make them work a damn,
And was nonplussed what to do next.

I hoped good luck might come my way;
Instead I met the Scansion Thief,
Who took away my ability to make poems scan,
And now they’re as blank as a very blank thing indeed.
They don’t even all have the same number of lines per stanza any more.
Oh bloody hell.

Sandra Bond is a Staffordshire novelist, poet and tragedian who
considers it most unfair that writing one piece of verse every month
or so does not attract a living wage. Her first novel, THE PSYCHOPATH
CLUB, was published in 2021.
https://www.sandra-bond.com/

 

The Cat Lives Rent Free, by Bill Richardson


By Robert Garnham 
The Cat Lives Rent Free

This black and white cat arrived in the garden one day
and I made the mistake of feeding them.
I say them because I don’t know the cat’s gender
– or is that sex? –
and who’s to say they’re not sensitive about these matters.
You have to be careful these days.
I mean: not to offend…
Careful too about feeding a feral cat.
I didn’t go looking for a cat.
I don’t love them.
But they’ve got the idea now, of course.
The habit. Calling by each day -
sits patiently at the back door
licking paws in anticipation.
I open the door, and the cat seamlessly,
at the last second, shifts to one side.
Examines the food with multiple sniffs.
There are days when only the sauce will do
and the sardines get left behind.
Especially if they’re not John West.
What is it about John West?
Is it that they get John West at the house of the other neighbour,
the other one they’ve trained…
Or maybe more than one?

Bill Richardson’s poems have been published in a number of magazines. He is Emeritus Professor of Spanish at the University of Galway and has re-engaged in recent years with his passion for creative writing. He enjoys swimming in the Atlantic and practising tai chi to the music of Arvo Pärt.

 

Camp Shangri-La by Arran Potts


By Robert Garnham 
Camp Shangri-La

He stopped for a quickie one night in her tent,
Made love to an egg-timer till he was spent,
The sand had run out, he came and then went;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

She lowered his zip and was so full of hope,
But all he could manage were fumbles and gropes,
So Val took the lead and showed Guy the ropes;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

They’ve put up two tents but they’re on the same pitch,
Four of them starkers, not wearing a stitch,
They’d do half an hour then partners would switch;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Tommy was fuming and she was to blame,
Cos everyone here in the camp knew his name,
Last night Sue had screamed it out loud when she came;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

At sixty she knows how to tease and to coax,
She pulled off his trousers with two short, sweet strokes,
Just as she’d done, with dozens of blokes;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Ronnie and Eileen at home in a yurt,
Strong green oak decking to cover the dirt,
But plenty of cushions in case they get hurt;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Sally McNally the Shangri-La vamp,
Looking for strapping young men round the camp,
She only needs someone to sleep in the damp; 
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Just rooves of soft fabric as somewhere to sleep,
The campsite is hidden, the price not to steep,
Those zips, flaps and awnings have secrets to keep;
That’s love here in Camp Shangri-La.

Arran Potts is from Wolverhampton, UK. He has recently taken up poetry as a hobby to rekindle a love for writing; and is finding Jo Bell’s ‘52 Poems’ book really useful. He is supported by family and friends. He is hindered by his job.

 

Epic Puma Fresh for Alpha Men not Boys, by Mandy Beattie


By Robert Garnham 
All new Puma Fresh is 100% epic
skin-silky anti-sweat pore blocking  
pick-me-up roll up roll up spray under 
 
those hairy oxters have the time 
of your life sniffing our solvents can’t kill 
but spurt away 15 inches in staccato 
 
bursts in breezy rooms shut 
your eyes in open doors outdoors 
windows spray pecs cracks cheeks 
 
for we don’t cause rashes itches so 
it won’t matter if skin is broken 
but our butane propane won’t 
 
blow up your chances 
because we odour bust for 72 hours 
but even in heat waves cool 
 
your Puma jets in fridge-freezers 
no need to strike a match 
when kissing companions will be 
 
swooning with naked 
flames before you combust 
in grapefruit tropical pineapple twist 
 
in cool fresh air that stuns senses 
with our pro scent technology your future 
smells amazing and we give fashion 
 
tips dating advice so our men don’t do 
dorky, geeky we’re more Mr Muscle and you’ll be 
smelling bomb.com because your future smells 
 
amazing with our high definition odour 
busting technology Puma will help you 
with your Tinder 
 
and Bumble bios but because you wear 
our 48 hours high-definition 
fragrance you’ll be confident iconic Puma
 
gives you all the tools 
when opportunity knocks and women 
will swoon girls will want a sniff 
 
sniff sniff pick me up 
from your local shop we’ve cornered 
the market we’ll keep you going all night 
 
all day long our fragrance is 100% epic 
protection at your fingertips Puma doesn’t do 
greenwashing because 
 
our cans are infinitely 
recyclable we can go again and again Puma’s
raising our A game because 
 
there is no Planet B and our bottles 
are 100% recyclable plastic in 3 years 
we’re aiming to include more recycled 
 
stuff we’re well on our way we contain 
ground-breaking detectable black technology 
to help with recyclability
 
boom
our proud parents Unilever supports 
some UN goals tackles 
global climate protects trees sustainable 
 
agriculture focused food security because we use 
tobacco amber oud wood vanilla 
and our latest Puma is Dark Temptation 
 
aftershave smooth on after switch
of your blade we help you use 
less water less energy through lower 
 
eco impact we cause 
a stink to tackle climate change 
we talk to politicians 
 

Biography:

Mandy Beattie frequently loses herself in poetry & imaginings. Pen, paper & words without borders are some of her favourite things. She has been published in Journals such as: Poets Republic, Dreich, Wordpeace, Spilling Cocoa, Last Stanza, Lothlorien Poetry. Poets Choice in Marble Broadsheet. Shortlisted, Black Box Poetry Competition.
 

Instructions for a Scouse Night Out, by Jenny Robb


By Robert Garnham 
Instructions for a Scouse night out
With thanks to the Urban Dictionary
 
Go into town to buy some new clobber,
have a few scoops in the spoons.
 
Go home and have a good scran.
You need to line your stomach before pre’s.
 
Make sure all your drinking mates are sound;
those who buy a round and have your back.
 
Listen to your best friend. If she says
the lad you’re necking is meff, trust her.
 
At throwing out and up time, have more scran.
You’re not bevvied enough if you go home
 
without a Vindaloo, or chips, or a sway
in the Hot Dog queue. Neck it!

Jenny Robb has been writing poetry since retiring. She’s been published widely in online and print magazines and in anthologies. Her debut collection, The Doll’s House, Yaffle Press, has recently been published. She lives in Liverpool with her partner and the family cat and has one grown-up daughter.

 

Sorry, by Emma Purshouse


By Robert Garnham 
Sorry 
 
this poem is pretty shit 
I must apologise for it. 
 
It has rhyme in its defence 
though its rhyme, is not immense 
 
It has no similes, nor metaphor. 
I’ve no idea what it’s for. 
 
It doesn’t seem to say a lot 
but one thing it hasn’t got 
 
(which is a plus I have to say) 
is a shard, or soul, or heart cliché... 
 
...and now it has. In that last verse. 
I fear I’ve gone and made things worse. 
 
At least I’ve got the deadline nailed. 
Yesterday? Oh fuck, I’ve failed. 
 
Yes, this poem is pretty shit 
and I apologise for it.

Emma Purshouse is a writer and performance poet from the English Black Country. Her poetry is published by ‘Offa’s Press’. Her debut novel ‘Dogged’ came out with ‘Ignite Books’ in 2021.

 

English Spelling, by Sarah Lawson


By Robert Garnham 
ENGLISH SPELLING
 
Practically since the dawn of history
English spelling has been a mystery.
And everything you ever learn’ll
Not prepare you for the r in colonel.
Do not expect a tidy law
To explain the end of Arkansas.
Spelling is just a rough mnemonic
And not reliably always phonic.

Sarah Lawson lives in London, originally from Indiana, educated in the US and Scotland; has published poetry pamphlets and two collections; translates from French, Spanish, and Dutch; has also written one play, one novel, and two memoirs.

 

 

A Mossy Rock in the Forest, by Robert Garnham


By Robert Garnham 
There's a mossy rock in the forest
A place I always like to go
A mossy rock in the woods
I go there when I'm feeling low.

And I sit on the rock in the moss
And it's hard and it makes me forget
I sit on the rock in the woods
If it’s damp it’ll make my bum wet

There's a mossy rock in the forest
Surrounded by foliage and leaves
And big arse rhododendrons
It's a place that puts me at my ease

And I sit on the rock in the moss
And the ground it's wet and spongy
And there's mushrooms sprouting up
And other types of fungi

There's a mossy rock in the forest
Its ok I suppose it could be worse
There are badgers and squirrels in the forest
That's it now I'm done with this verse

And I sit on rock in the moss
I only like to sit here a whiles 
And the rock is not exactly comfy
You wouldn't want to sit here with piles

There's a mossy rock in the forest
the branches here are terribly scratchy
I try to watch some porn on my phone
But the WiFi signal here is patchy.

And I sit on the rock in the moss
And I sit on the rock in the moss
And I sit on the rock in the moss
And then my mind wanders off.

Robert Garnham has been performing LGBT comedy poetry around the UK for ten years at various fringes and festivals, and has had three collections published by Burning Eye. He has won slams in places such as London, Edinburgh and Swindon and headlined or featured at events such as Bang Said the Gun, Raise the Bar, and Milk and in 2019 was the Hammer and Tongue featured artist for a tour of the UK. He has supported artists such as John Hegley, Arthur Smith and Paul Sinha. His website is https://professorofwhimsy.com/

 

So Surrey, by Trisha Broomfield


By Robert Garnham 
So Surrey

I’m tired of being Surrey
with vowels of pure cut glass
surface good intentions
and Pilates perfect arse
 
I’m tired of being Surrey
with legs like licorice sticks
tipped into boots, DuBarry
where obese is still size six
 
I’m tired of being Surrey
with hair five shades of fair
driving blind to others
volunteering just to care
 
I’m tired of being Surrey
sunglasses half my face
Botox, fillers, collagen
and running out of space
 
but being here in Surrey
it’s full of all things green
Pesto sauce and olives
and kale to keep me lean
 
I think I’ll stay in Surrey
though not so near a beach
I’ll take up Bikram yoga
and do my roots, so pass the bleach.
 

The Ballad of Laurel Blaney, by David Ludford


By Robert Garnham 
The Ballad Of Laurel Blaney

 

Old Tally was a minstrel
He wandered free and wild
And one day he met Annie
And Annie bore his child.
 
Now Laurel loved to play, she did
She loved to fool around
But went too near the river
And Laurel went and drowned.
 
Now if you should see Laurel
Just run away, just go
For Laurel’s now the devil’s girl
She’ll drag you down below.
Beware the deep, deep water
Beware the devil’s daughter.
 
Now think of young Jack, a boy
Who loved to dive and swim
Just think back for a moment
You may remember him.
Jack he was an active boy
Yes, swimming he loved most
He wasn’t scared of monsters
He’d never seen a ghost.
Jack stood on the riverbank
One lovely summer’s day
When Laurel grabbed him by the foot
And swept him clean away.
Beware the deep, deep water
Beware the devil’s daughter.
 
Remember too poor Jenny
Just strolling back from town
A shortcut by the river
She hadn’t meant to drown
A bully boy from school she saw
A silly girl he thought her
He rushed and pushed
She slipped and slid
And fell into the water.
No Jenny hadn’t meant to drown
Wicked Laurel dragged her down.
Beware the deep, deep water
Beware the devil’s daughter.
 
The purpose of these tales, my friends
That make you shake and shiver
Just beware
And take great care
When you are near the river.
For every tale, old or new
There has to be a moral
And my advice
I won’t give twice
Remember wicked Laurel.
Beware the deep, deep water
Beware the devil’s daughter.

End


Dave Ludford is a writer from Nuneaton, Warwickshire, where not many writers come from. Except George Eliot. His short works of horror and science fiction have appeared in a variety of online locations.