terse verse

 

DUST

Speak to me not of dust!

Talk, if you must

Of debauchery! Boozing!

Of unbridled lust

But not dust.

That demon, choking mist.

Message board for feet and fingers,

Sign-posting their way.

Defiant of all removal efforts

Of the housewife’s art

From ragged underpants

To thousand-dollar Dyson.

Still it rolls, cloaking, choking

On from whence it comes.

And where is whence?

The building site beyond my boundary fence!

 

 

 

COMPUTER GENERATED

My brain, like my computer’s hard drive,

Is full of fragments of wit.

And stuff I’ve writ                                                                                                                                          (Or not,as I only jot it down when there’s a pen.)

The difficulty, quite plain

in either case,

Is finding the key that brings it back again.

 

 

Incey Wincey Spider

Incey Wincey Spider, climbing up the spout

Was seen by an arachnophobe

Who vowed to rub him out.

He grabbed a can of Mortein and sprayed it everywhere,

Drenching poor old Incey

Who retreated to his lair.

And when the mist of Mortein had drifted from the air

Incey’s mutant offspring

Were crawling everywhere!

 

 

THE NEW RELIGION

When daily smote by Phoebus’ burning fire

We now the Promethean gift eschew –

Unless, obeying custom or desire,

We take it for the barbecue.

The barbecue! Suburban males’ sacred weekend rite.

With beer can orb, for sceptre, now, a fork.

When cheaper cuts of meat are set alight

And women banned from joining priestly talk.

All hail the meat incinerator!

Handmaidens to him wilted lettuce bring.

Praise him! Praise the monstrous perpetrator.

Libation pour and loud! the paean sing.

The Rubaiyat of Wall Street  D.J.Patmore  2010 

Show caution now! For rash NASDAQ on City’s floor
Has tempted us to buy then buy some more.
The lamp of Prudence, burning low,
May gutter e’re we stumble t’wards the Door.Admonishments from frugal Fathers, past
Are lost in air as Profit bids us: “Fast!”
And Maynard Keynes calls us to worship Him
And nails our billowed colours to his Mast.The Bull and Bear, they say, still tend
That Court where men were wont to buy and lend
And o’er those silent Brokers of the Past
The Wild Bull stamps, but cannot make them spend.

ANYONE FOR TENNIS?   D.J.Patmore © 2004

I know you might not think so, but I used to be athletic.
It’s just recent lack of exercise that’s made my body look pathetic.

I joined a local tennis club, for social games, on Monday.
I’d get fit and make new friends at a hit ‘n’ giggle fun day.

And fun it was, until we heard what happened to poor Peg
She’d fallen off her bike and pulled a tendon in her leg.

“The competition first round draw’s next week! Oh, God! We’ll need a stand-in!”
The captain said: “Please say you’ll play!”And Muggins here said: “Well, OK. ” (Just to keep my hand in.)

In the first match I was partnered by a heavyweight called Sheila
Who barged her way around the court like a mad, bee-stung Blue Heeler.

And when her drop shot clipped the tape, I heard a dreadful scream
Of most unladylike abuse – from someone on my team!

We’d won some hard-fought points and held the final set at deuce
When the umpire missed a foot fault __and then all hell broke loose.

Oaths were hurled and racquets flung. There was Holy Invocation.
And from supporters on the sideline, jars of sportsman’s embrocation!

If the first match was a nightmare, the second one was worse,
Involving fisticuffs between a waitress and a nurse.

It took a while to calm them down. And a bucket of cold water.
The funny thing about it was that they were mum and daughter!

The third match was my final
And I breathed a heart-felt sigh

When I read the draw and there I saw-
Our team had got a bye!

Now, I’ll happily play singles. Even Cut-throat or Mixed Doubles.
Some calls may be disputed, but we don’t have major troubles.

No, as far as I’m concerned, by far the greatest menace
Is mixing it with the rowdies in Ladies’ Competition Tennis!

A SMALL TRIBUTE

Four hundred and two score years, and more! have passed
Since a babe was born and played in Warwick’s county.
No coddled son of noble folk, nor scholar.
Yet with what wit did he engage our minds, our hearts!The nay-sayers would have him drown-ed in derision.
And those whose minds forever waver make no decision
When put to question. Some tilt for Marlowe; some for Bacon still!
All dead, they cannot plead their case.Then make your wager – which poet drove the quill?
Marlowe? Bacon? Shakespeare? My purse remains with Will!

copyright D.J.Patmore, 2004

Apologies to the Fab Four.

…   Now that I’m busy, struggling to post

Maybe once a week

Will you still be coming here, looking for laffs?

(Maybe you’re just coming here, looking for gaffs!)

If I gave up and deleted the blog

Would you howl for more?

Will you still need me…

Will you still read me…

When I’m sixty four?

On Re -arranging Nature © D.J.Patmore

I’m thinking of cosmetic surgery.
Oh! Nothing too grand or too flash.
Well,I haven’t got much that needs fixing
And I haven’t got very much cash.
But I stand in the line at the check-out
And I look at the magazine pics
Of all of those Hollywood bimbos
And the bits that they can’t wait to fix.
They’ve been botoxed and lipo’d and silicon’d
To within an nth of their lives!
And it’s not just a “girly thing” either –
It’s the husbands as well as the wives!

Do I want to go under the scalpel
And write out a whopping great cheque?
Do I care what the world thinks I look like?
Do I honestly care?
Do I heck!

Cosmetic Surgery – ad nauseam © P.K.James

I have now had my first consultation

(Dr Zamet Al Masreh, Dip. Med.)

He studied my case in great detail,

“Very please, you lie up on this bed?”

The exam seemed to go on forever,

I stared at the ceiling in dread

“We’ll tie everything north of your navel

In a knot on the top of your head!”

Now I’m not really sure that I need this,

I’m over the gorgeous and glam.

I don’t want the scar,

I’ve made it this far.

Perhaps I’ll just stay as I am.

On the radio this morning (November  2006) I heard a newsreader say: “Fiji on high coup alert…” and this sprang to mind
the army threatens
another coup in Fiji
poets stand ready.

LEARNER DRIVER

Grandma never drove the car
When Grandad was alive.
But on the day he passed away,
She thought she’d learn to drive.
She taught herself.

Well, she fiddled with the mirror
And adjusted its position.
Then, satisfied her hat was straight,
Turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing happened.

She knew to push a pedal,
But which one did the trick?
(Logic said: ’the left one.’)
And then she had to move the stick.
She chose “1”

Just as well that Grandad
Always parked it in reverse
Cos Grandma’s speed went straight to
A Ferrari from a hearse!
Still in “1”

She hurtled down the driveway,
Just in time, she swung the wheel,
For at the end, the gates were locked
And they were made of steel!
Solid bars.

She steered towards the paddock,
Missing Grandad’s dahlia bed.
But not an ugly plaster gnome;
Her fender smashed his head.
“Good riddance!”

Gran had changed to third by now
Which quite increased her rate.
And looming, fright’ning fast, the fence ___
Five strands of number eight.
Electrified!

In that field, a Jersey bull
Of evil reputation,
Saw the car as rival to
His bovine manly station.
He charged the fence.

Around the field and ‘round they went,
The Jersey and the Holden.
With graunching gears and gnathic froth
Til the western sky was golden.
Both determined.

They say it was a thrilling race,
She drove, her wheels a-fire.
Until the car was out of gas
And the bull was out of ire.
She taught herself.

© D.J.Patmore 2001 

BUILDING SITE BALLAD    D.J.Patmore  © 2004

There was movement at “The Castle” for the builders had returned
And the Boss had been on site to crack the whip.
There was yards of plastic wrapping, steel pins and wire strapping.
And very little of it in the skip!

Now the site was steep and tricky. On the northern side the scree
Made it hard to keep a foothold on the slope.
We nearly lost ol’ Gazza, but his shorts were grabbed by Bazza,
And after that, we linked-up on a rope.

The blokes who brought the girders were out-of-work sheep herders,
Forced North by the Monaro’s record dry.
Why they saw how high the roofline stuck up ‘way above the skyline
Well, they figured there were better ways to die!

Like a giant praying mantis, rearing high above the ground,
A concrete truck was beating out a rhythm
And cement trucks, in a fleet, were growling up the street
And every driver had a Heeler with him!

All the ruts were full of muck and a concrete truck got stuck
And no amount of revving got him clear – the Readymix was axle-deep in swill.
When a kid who had been watching said :”I’ve got a good idea!
Vere’s a farmer wiv a twactor down ‘ve hill.”

So off we all went trooping like an ANZAC Day parade
With the little boy leading, with a dog.
(One, his nose a-twitch, had gone seeking out a bitch
and some had chased a possum up a log.)

The sugar farmer chappy wasn’t really happy
That some dork’s truck might cause him a delay.
But the chance to make a buck by hauling out a truck
Just might help to off-set the FTA.

He said: “I’ll see youse fellas right
If y’ come back here tonight.
If you want the tractor now
You’ll have to pay!”

EBERNEEZER PONDERZACK.

Down a twisty, dusty track,

In a crooked, creaky shack

With a wobbly chimney stack,

Lives Eberneezer Ponderzack.

Eberneezer is a fixer, so his shack is full of things:

From tiny puppet dolls on strings

To giant kites, like paper wings,

Screws and hinges, nails and springs.

Pots of paint and globs of glue,

Fishing floats and fish hooks, too,

Teapots (cracked) and teapots (new),

Red ones, green ones, yellow! blue!

He’d save a rusty pizza tray

“It might be handy one fine day.”

Where you or I would simply say:

“It’s useless! Just throw it away!”

But Eberneezer loves his junk

It’s even piled upon his bunk!

He can fix it if it’s going “clunk!”

Or “clang!” Or if it’s lost a chunk.

So it your train’s come off its track,

If a wheel your cart should lack,

If something needs an extra tack –

See Eberneezer Ponderzack.

D.J.Patmore. © 2004.