Acronymonious

For this poem, I think a passing Facebook post started me thinking. Sometimes the appropriate insult or concise description isn't instantly available. We either need assistance at the relevant time, or be prepared to do some decent work beforehand to have those words at our instant beck and call.

Acronymonius

We are blessed with a wonderful language
with words that are varied and deep.
Some just roll of the tongue, ...
some are short, some are long
and some that a censor may bleep.

But there are those times when the right word won’t come,
when you’re faced with new kind of fool.
You don’t get results
with the usual insults;
You need something diff’rent - a tool.

A tool that assesses the object of note
Assessing the faults it portrays,
choosing each syllable,
something distillable,
making a word or a phrase.

It could start by defining some attributes
And forming a phrase or a clause
then, using synonyms
It could form acronyms –
a way to condense all their flaws.

Until there’s a unit out there we can use
we’ll need to do prep on our own.
Take some time; be reflective
for future invective.
And prepare to enjoy a good moan.

Examples (no doubt you can do better)
GUDANSOR: Grammatically Unsound, Derivative And No Sense Of Rhythm
SCRIT: Supposed Celebrity Requiring Immediate Termination
TWACS: Totally Without Any Common Sense
PEFAHB: Poor Excuse For A Human Being
OMARIJ: Opens Mouth And Rectum Is Jealous
VATCH: Vindictive Acid-Tongued Corrupt Hag/Heel

My Favourite Holiday

The most recent "Pub Poets" open mic gathering had a dual theme of "We're all going on a summer holiday" and "Holidays from hell."

I had written one poem, but I wanted something a little more upbeat, so wrote this on the day of the gathering, finishing it half an hour before I left home.

Oh, and it's not a true story!

My Favourite Holiday

I would not argue with my wife
as she was one to hold a grudge.
It simply was not worth the strife
for when proved wrong she would not budge.
Facts did not matter in her view
and when they contradicted her
a stubbornness inflicted her;
you saw her eyes and then you knew.
And that is why I let things slide
and let my darling have her way,
and it worked fine, ‘cept when my bride
would come back from our holiday.

She’d leaf beforehand through brochures
to find the place where we would go;
the final choice was always hers
and when she’d made it I would know.
Some naff resort, hotel she’d choose
and each year it would be the same
and each year I would take the blame;
it wasn’t worth it to refuse.
I’d take it with a pinch of salt
and marvel how her mem’ry blurs.
Of course it had to be my fault
because, of course, it wasn’t hers.

Eventually I’d had enough –
that Chinese water torture thing;
incessantly that slagging off,
the prospect next year’s trip would bring.
I’d need to bring it to an end;
this annual apology –
I’d need to use psychology
to get my way and not offend.
By chance I found a magazine
that fit in with her fantasy
as Johnny Depp upon the screen,
he was her fav’rite man to see.

A Caribbean cruising ship
set up to have a pirate theme,
and when she caught sight of this trip
I’d got it right, it was her dream.
Last minute I said “I can’t go,
as Work has this emergency.”
“I’ll go there on my own,” said she,
whilst giving me the old heave-ho.
It’s been two years since off she sailed
Towards the Car-ib-be-an Sea
It isn’t that our marriage failed
The ship sank there. It wasn’t me.

Too Much?

A quick poem reflecting on my recent television viewing.

Too Much?

I've known it for a fair few weeks:
I'm watching far too much TV.
The weekday broadcasts shown by Pick,
their shows have dominated me.
Stargate had ten seasons.
It's sequel had some more.
Andromeda followed after these
(What did I watch that for?)
Eureka supplemented this -
that's two hours ev'ry night -
and yet I didn't miss the soaps;
there's video and catch-up, right?
I watched some other dramas too,
like Gotham and the one 'bout SHIELD,
and Law & Order SVU
and still I was not forced to yield.
When Breaking Bad began on Spike
I wondered how I'd manage it,
but yes, I did, with some late nights
and later breakfasts, I admit.
But now their runs have reached their ends;
two weekly shows, so no more moans.
I've now got time for other things:
those DVDs of Game of Thrones.

Dixie Rixie

This character piece started out as a Saraband with a single verse but I expanded it for a Facebook poetry challenge. I hasten to mention it isn't based upon anyone I know...

Dixie Rixie

Dixie Rixie is a pixie
who’s a klepto and so tricksy.
You should see the things he nicks; he
sneaks inside and steals your undies
from the dresser late on Mondays,
steals from elves in the environs
whilst avoiding police sirens.

Dixie had a problem drinking –
not so much with muddled thinking –
inobtrusive? Not when stinking.
Escaping capture by a fluke,
he realised that trails of puke
don’t help the perfect getaway.
He gave up nettle wine that day.

Now Dixie’s sober you will find
he leaves no evidence behind,
this cheeky sneaky mastermind;
leaves no proof that he was there, his
alibi is with the fairies.
Truth is that one couldn’t pick a
slicker quicker knickers nicker.

One Journey

I have been participating in a "5-day poetry challenge" on Facebook, where a nominee posts a daily poem (original or a favourite by someone else). For one of the days I wrote the following poem - not because I was thinking of rain so much; more because I was playing about with alliteration and one particular phrase set me off.

One Journey

Sky-sourced silver slivers sent splish-splashing,
streaming past the shingles, cross the flashing,
surging, gurgling along the gutter,
descending drainpipes with a splutter,
dropping down drains to discharge through a
secretive subterranean sewer,
through swirling, whirling watercourses,
into the sea, ‘neath wild white horses,
to join the tides, to travel to the land,
sinusoidal shifting through the sand.
One journey out of many more,
from sky to stream to sea to shore.

It's Not What You Say

This was a follow-up to a writing exercise where we had to write a canzonetta. Note the refrain line.

It's Not What You Say
I listen, the music brings pleasure to me;
an aria sung by Domingo,
but as for the words? Well I don’t need to be
au fait with Italian lingo.
It could be the music that Puccini wrote,
it could be the voice, I’ll allow.
Whatever the reason, there’s one thing I note:
It’s not what you say, it is how.

In politics, candidates now realise
that questions are not such a risk.
Diverting the point, unrelated replies,
making jokes, shifting blame, being brisk.
I guess they need training to manage this skill –
an air of trust they can endow;
a paragon hiding a con, if you will:
it’s not what you say, it is how.

The second poem was the result of the exercise itself, with the them "contract". Naturally, I thought of a contract killer. Who wouldn't?

The Contract
He crouched behind the marble wall;
the shadows kept him out of view.
He waited, watching in the mall.
He had no nerves, ‘twas nothing new.
The crowds were held back, yet to come,
still waiting for the op’ning time.
He stroked the gun stock with his thumb.
This killing really was no crime.

The doors slid open. In he came,
the quarry that the man had sought.
He walked in like he had no shame;
the misery that he had brought.
The gunsight centred on his head.
He did not have too long a time;
before too long he would be dead.
This killing really was no crime.

Not to Fail and to Show Some Spine

The latest Pub Poets meeting had the theme "The Trail of the Lonesome Pine". My memory of Laurel and Hardy performing this goes back to 1975 when the song was released as a single in the UK. It reached number two in the charts, and was only held off the top spot by Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. For a song popularised in the 1937 film Way Out West, I remember thinking that it was unusual for a 38 year old song to enter the charts.

When I came to write this poem, my thoughts were "what 38 year old film today in 2015 could inspire a song?" I then felt very old when the obvious film was "Star Wars". I wrote the poem so that (at a pinch) it could be sung to the melody of "The Trail of the Lonesome Pine". So here goes:

Not to Fail and to Show Some Spine
On a planet – name of Tatooine
was a boy called Luke.
Came a-cross a secret message – in
Re-tro-spect it was a fluke –
An R 2 droid was beeping, quite annoyed
as Luke heard what was said
by a girl with Danish pastries
stuck upon her head:

She – was – pleading for Obi wan Kenobi
Not to fail and to show some spine.
Luke decided then, to find old Ben;
They went to a place where they sold some wine
And there – was a bloke with a ship
They engaged – for a res-cue trip.
Han – joined – Luke and Obi wan Kenobi
Not to fail and to show some spine.

They set off for Planet Alderan
but all was not well.
They found Leia on an Empire ship;
broke her out a prison cell.
A brief spell in a waste compressor,
and then they got away
But Kenobi wasn’t one of them –
Naughty protégée.

Now – they – had no Obi Wan Kenobi
with them facing a tight deadline.
Though they’d found a way – to save the day,
the chance of success was borderline,
then Luke – found an extra resource;
he tapped in – to the mystical Force.
With the help of the spirit of Kenobi
he was able to show some spine.