Bloody men are like bloody buses
You wait for about a year
And as soon as one approaches your stop
Two or three others appear.
You look at them flashing their indicators,
Offering you a ride.
You’re trying to read the destinations,
You haven’t much time to decide.
If you make a mistake, there is no turning back.
Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gaze
While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by
And the minutes, the hours, the days.
by Wendy Cope (a great living English poet!)
She calls it Moo-juice
in a trying-hard-to-be-cute way.
He winces, wonders why she does this
then is lost once more in her eyes.
I watch, hopefully furtive, observing
the locals in their native habitat
Copyright © 2022 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Church bells have many voices
joyous peals clamour across Saturday weddings
bellow for Sunday attendance
toll sonorous to the dead
but at Wednesday evening practice
the tonal song and dance differs
depends who is pulling the rope
sometimes tempestuous
sometimes a quivering drone
other times the bells
(and the seething listener)
may beseech release
from an idiot beginner
Copyright © 2022 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Today, dVerse asks us to celebrate thesaurus day and write a poem that includes at least one word from each of the categories below:
Someone is eating my pears
He sits on the branches and stares
He’s a very pretty pidgeon
Who should take only a smidgeon
But takes as much as he dares
Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond
A Quick limerick for you today. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible. Hubby and I are feeling rather poorly at present.
So we came off the plane
and they met us with a car
took us hungry and tired
to a huge Sushi bar
Two girls they thought us
tried to phase us with raw fish
but we were Londoners
we could devour any dish
Next night they tried Rogan Josh
after a long day of negotiation
Grinning, we upped the chilli
scoffed it down without hesitation
Then there was the brewery where
they planned to drink us under the table
but we were women of the world
always ready and able
To match them beer for beer
and whiskey for whiskey
and then when they were plastered
one of the idiots tried to get frisky
We threw them out the door
turned up in the office next morning
clinched the deal at cost price
while they were hungover and yawning
Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond
My Marketing Manager & I went to Ann Arbor in the late 1990s to secure a software deal for a coalition of the worlds airlines. The American negotiators tried all sort of tricks to put us “girls” (as they kept calling us) on the back foot. But expecting to out curry or out drink Londoners is simply naive. :)
This poem is a true story — although I’ve missed out the Mexican Chilli house and the Greek restaurant. Did they really think Greek was strange foreign food to a Londoner????? We led the dancing and plate throwing that night!
I was inspired by an excellent poem over at Jims blog: High Plains Sushi
They crane, rotate, jerk
goof their necks around
taking a series of snapshots
looking for the main chance
make significant snap judgments about the speed and distance of a target
insect, mouse, frog, slug
or the neighbours cat
Do not question their motives
lest they destroy you.
Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Looking for light, hearing it’s echoes
while shadows criticise and despair
I’m hanging on Hopes rocky crags
and getting that second jab…..
Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Today at 9:30am! Yes!
When you are old you
don’t understand
the plot of any Avengers film
but do understand
personal comfort is important
hence the clothes you are wearing
Gladly point out that nobody
really knows what a blockchain is
start to ask things like
“Who needs that many tattoos?”
find you are saving everything
and wasting nothing
particularly stale leftovers
expect to have at least one ache or pain at all times.
Being old is a state of mind
when you are old
you don’t have to pretend anymore.
Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond
This isn’t poetry, just me being indulgent on a Sunday night….….again….
I was born in London, went to university in London and still love my home town, even though I will never live there again.
Heres a wonderful bit from the Opening Ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics:
I know a funny little man,
As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done
In everybody’s house.
There’s no one ever sees his face,
And yet we all agree
That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr., Nobody
‘Tis he who always tears our books,
who leaves our doors ajar;
he pulls the buttons from our shirts,
and scatters pins afar,
that squeaking door will always squeak,
because of this you see:
we leave the oiling to be done
by Mr Nobody.
He puts damp wood upon the fire,
So kettles cannot boil;
His are the feet that bring in mud
And all the carpets soil.
The papers always are mislaid,
Who had them last but he?
There’s no one tosses them about
But Mr. Nobody
The Cheesesellers Wife 