Category: poem

A poem in which a pharmacist is objectified in rhyming couplets…

Together
And yet
so alone

Each mind
walled off
by prison
bone

Each skull
a fort
Each rib
a bar

So near
we get
And still
so far

The heart
of you
will never
be
fully visible
to me

And what
you’ll see
is what
I’ll show

And what
I don’t
you’ll never
know

And even if
I don’t
protect
but show
it all
you’ll still
project

from out
of you
and on
to me

So you’ll
see you
You won’t
see me

And though
I try
my self
to tame

I’ll look
at you
and do
the same

The wobbly dog
liked to lie on the rug
stretched out by the fire
all cosy and snug

He’d look tired and sleepy
and wrinkly and slow
But inside of his mind
he was raring to go

He’d lie on his tum
and he’d dream and he’d dream
of running through forests
and dashing through streams

Of chasing the rabbits
and hunting the hares
Wild and free
in a life with no cares

But Wobbly Dog
had a job and a wife
He had no time
for a wild, free life

There were the puppies
One, Two and Three
And he and his wife
raised their dog family

They worried and worked
as they struggled to give
their pups all the things
that are needed to live

Their cares wore them down
their backs, they would bend
“A dog’s life,” they said,
“is all work without end”

“We always feel tired
and worn out and fussed
We struggle to finish
the things that we must”

“We’ve owners to walk
and postmen to threaten
Sticks to fetch
and lamp-posts to wet on”

“We’ve got bones to gnaw
and tails to chase
And children to lick
all over the face”

“There are kittens to scare
and slippers to chew
And woofing and barking
and growling to do”

They worked and they worked
every day of their life
but Wobbly Dog loved
his wobbly wife

And his wobbly pups
numbers One, Two and Three
would fill him with joy
as they sat on his knee

So Wobbly Dog hugged
his pups and his wife
and said, “Don’t let’s worry
or moan about life”

“Remember,” he said
“It’s more than it seems
There’s a wonderful time
to be had in our dreams”

And at night, while they slept
he would lie on his paunch
and off to the land of his dreams
he would launch

For he had a world
inside of his head
A place he could go to
when all were in bed

A land where he ran
at the head of a pack
with squirrels to chase
and foxes to track

Where lesser dogs cowered
at the might of his howl
And enemies fled
at the hint of a scowl

His teeth, they were sharper
His claws, they were red
in this wild, free land
inside of his head

And each night, while the pups
lay asleep in their beds
They too went to lands
deep inside of their heads

They would play and they’d laugh
on adventures galore
with running and howling
and hunting and more

For the magic of dreams
will set little minds free
and take them to places
where they want to be

And even for grown-ups
the same thing is true
They also have things
that they long to do

And though Wobbly Dog
looked so sleepy and slow
the inside of his mind
was magic and so

with his wobbly pups
and his wobbly wife
and his dreams, he lived out
a perfect dog’s life.

(c) inkyjim

The next-door neighbour’s laugh
doesn’t mean to be violent

It sells houses
cleans the car
each weekend
and seems content with that

The next-door neighbour’s laugh
enjoys barbecuing
painting fences
chatting
Plays golf once a week
Fucks the wife on Sundays
hungrily

The next-door neighbour’s laugh
would be kindly
if it stopped at the fence

But to them it feels like an attack

That raucous rattle
rips through their careful
clipped-conifer defences
and flails at their frail flesh

It tears at their tattered truce
and lashes their lonely lives
with a lead-tipped levity
that leaves them limp and lost

They never acknowledge it

But the mirth shreds them
in their sodden trench

Boom, boom

The guffaws rain like mortars
on the barren no man’s land of their home,
cratering the places no one dares to go
pummelling the unspoken mud
scattering remains long dead

When it’s over
reproach falls coldly
from the sky
Hangs over the scene like gas

All is smothered

He tuts and returns to his book
She to her television

In a house nearby
someone turns up the music

As the T-shirts have said
Do not wait to be happy
Don’t save living until things are achieved
And everything sorted
Do it now

Listen to the wind in the bushes
Feel the asphalt love against your feet
Be curious. Especially about yourself
And be gentle
Above all, be gentle

Take care around those who are not
They hurt, for they know not what they do
Watch them. And learn from them
what happens when rightness is prized
over being kind.

Before they die
– if they are lucky –
something will wake them
Some deep loss, or breakdown, or tragedy
will shake them alive.

Be there when this happens
And help them
You have love to spare

My dad is big
His arms are wide
He’s warm from all
the good inside

He likes to eat
my mum’s éclairs
And plays jazz music
on the stairs

And when he tucks
me into bed
sometimes he falls
asleep instead

and I lie really
really still
and hope that
if I do he will

snore beside me
like a bear
It feels so good
to have him there

But then he wakes
and kisses me
and goes downstairs
to watch TV

And all the warmth
he’s left behind
is like a blanket
for my mind

My dad is big
His arms are wide
He’s soft and warm
and kind inside

My lovely balloon, my helium balloon

has gone up in the air

I let go for a second

Now my balloon’s no longer there

.

I’d held on very tightly

to the ribbon while we walked

home from the shops

my mum and I

She’d listened while I talked

.

I told her how I loved my balloon

Happy Birthday You Are Four!

it said in big gold letters

I shan’t see any more

.

Mum said four’s a big-boy age

I’d be a grown-up soon

And wasn’t I a clever chap

for choosing such a balloon?

.

My helium balloon, my lovely balloon

It flew up in the sky

and drifted over rooftops

wobbling goodbye.

.

The world is round
a big blue ball
But doesn’t seem
that way at all

Here in the grass
where I have sat
the world looks green
and fairly flat.

The dog has eaten Jesus
Oh Lord, what a sin!
The one true Christ, our saviour,
The dog has eaten Him

She pulled him from the manger
in his swaddling cloth
And there, beneath the Christmas tree,
she bit his head right off

The dog has eaten Jesus
Such heathen mongrel tricks!
Oh, heretic blasphemer
greyhound-lurcher mix

She’s gone and swallowed Jesus
The Lord is in her now
Everything that bad dog does
will be holier than thou.

a poem in which I get seriously upstaged

Copy and paste this link to share: inkyjim.com/2020/08/19/bird/

A washed-up snivelling wallow disguised as a poem. Sometimes the moment gets what it deserves…

He is talking again.

“We are just waves,”
he says,
“Rising and falling in the dark.
“Swell, on a godless ocean.”

She indulges him
with her eyes.

“Our memories are nothing,”
he says,
“Just the moonlight
on the cresting water.”

“We rise, we fall,”
she says.

“We break,”
he says,
“Over and over.
“We always break.”

“But there are tides,”
she says,
“And currents.
“They are deep, surely.”

The urgency in her voice
makes them both laugh.

Their feet touch beneath the table and
they lean in and join hands. He can smell her hair.
A waiter brings more drinks.

They talk about something else.

‐——- (c) inkyjim ——–

Good morning, Mr Magpie
One – two – three
Please don’t make
bad luck for me

I live at number thirteen
I’ve stepped on lots of cracks
My mirror’s broken and black cats
have run across my tracks

I sneezed three times
as I walked under a ladder
So please, Mr Magpie
don’t make me any sadder

I’ve got a four-leaved clover
And I’ve spat and spun around
I’ve kissed a rabbit’s foot
And picked up a penny I found

I’ve wished upon a star
crossed my fingers
knocked on wood
So please, Mr Magpie
let my luck be good.

—- (c) inkyjim —-

I took my grief to see a poet

I told her death hurt

And that I was going to die

And my children were going to die

And their childen were going to die

And so was she

And love could not save us

The world would shrug

And forget

The poet said grief was not poetry

I should keep it in a drawer

I took my grief to see a wise woman

She told me death hurts

And that I am going to die

And my children are going to die

And their childen are going to die

And so is she

And the world will shrug at us

And forget

She told me to buy a notebook

I keep it in a drawer

If Rapunzel had been a girl with shorter hair
The prince might just have left her there.
Or, if she’d gone completely bald,
Stood beneath the tower and called: 

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, I’ll restore your beauty
I am your prince, it is my duty.
The royal budget’s very big
We’ll get a blonde and glossy wig.”

Rapunzel in the magic tower
Would summon all of her girl power
And shout down from a high window
To the royal jerk below:

“I guess it’s sweet that you’re impassioned
But, dude, your views are so old fashioned
I’m more than hair or eyes or teeth
You’d be surprised what lies beneath

And my life’s my responsibility
I don’t need you to rescue me
I’m not some trinket on a shelf
I handle witches by myself
I won’t dress up for your male gaze
Or swoon at sexist power plays
You say you want me for a wife?
Sorry, no. I love my life

Please, pop your sword back in its sheath
Un-grin those shining royal teeth
We’re working hard here Witch and me
To overthrow the patriarchy
We’re printing flyers – see my blisters –
For distribution to the sisters
You’d better warn them in the town
This monarchy is coming down.

And when it’s done, when we are equal,
Come on back, we’ll try a sequel
But let me say this plain and clear:
You will not find a wifey here.
When we hook up it’s just for sex
You’ve got nice eyes – and awesome pecs.”

———- (c) inkyjim ———– 

My legs are long and useful things
I’ve two of them you know
I swing them forward one by one
to get where I would go

They stretch from thighs right down to toes
with knees set halfway there
They’re also good for standing up
I’m glad I’ve got a pair

——- (c) inkyjim ——

My daughter is a highwayman
She rides a black toy horse
She fills our house with lusty cries
and threats of deadly force
She gallops round the living room
atop her rocking steed
and dreams up lots of lethal plots
with violence and greed

This morning as I wandered
from the kitchen down the hall
I felt a dagger in my ribs
and heard her frightening call
‘It’s pocket money day!’ she cried
I felt my blood run cold
‘I’m Catherine the highwayman
so pay me lots of gold’

I fumbled in my pocket
for a pound and 50p
‘Here’, I blubbed, ‘that’s all I’ve got
Work hasn’t yet paid me’
She snarled into her neckerchief
and spat a vile curse
She said, ‘You bring me more next week
or things will get much worse’

My daughter is a highwayman
It’s money or my life
I get no help from friends, the police
or even from my wife
They believe her when she tells them
that it’s just a bit of fun
They will not take her plastic sword
or confiscate her gun

My daughter is a highwayman
My wife says I’m too meek
but I’m afraid of what she’ll do
if I can’t pay next week

——-(c) inkyjim ——-

Poison drops of curséd moonlight
Infernal orbs by Satan cussed
Charméd pearls that kill a swoon-like
Kisser’s ardour.
Looters of love’s sacred trust
Evil bulbs repulsing lovers
Drowning hearts in acid must

Once you were a source of pleasure
Now you are a cause of pain
I ate you and then kissed my treasure
Orlanda won’t kiss me again
Now I steep in her displeasure
Silverskins of cold disdain.

—— (c) inkyjim ——

My friend Mike
likes riding on his bike
He rides it all over the town
Mike says, “I like
to ride upon my bike
It’s like walking,
but also sitting down.”

—- (c) inkyjim —-

(This poem was an experiment that just got out of hand. It is nuts and also kind of an outrage. John Keats, I’m really, really sorry. I post it here because it’s so over the top that it’s kind of fun. )

Daddy, does God wear underpants?

Do they have carrots in Spain?

Who puts that skin on the custard?

And do clouds get dry in the rain?

When will I be a grown up?

Why’s there a stone in my peach?

You know cats have nine lives,

Is their birthday the same date for each?

Why does Gran keep her teeth in that jar?

Why do fat people want to be thinner?

What’s the orange traffic light for?

Can we have biscuits for dinner?

Why are you smiling Dad?

Is it for something I said?

It’s just that I love you, my darling.

Now hush up and get into bed.

————— © inkyjim ————-

 Thomas’s mummy is awfully keen

On keeping little Thomas clean.

Each night before he goes to bed

She scrubs him from his toes to head.

Next morning (this is quite a pain)

She wraps him up in Cellophane.

She says that this is good hygiene

But Thomas really isn’t keen.

—– ©inkyjim ——-