Poetic Therapy!
VHS Men
When Andrew McCarthy came over all cute
in “Pretty in Pink”, a stirring took root,
When Christian Slater took off his shirt
in “Pump up the Volume”, my oestrogen hurt,
When young Patrick Swayze did shimmies and thrusts
all through “Dirty Dancing”, all virtue went bust…
Real boys were rubbish, so time and again
I spent happy times with my VHS men.
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Photo by Sharon Christina Rørvik on Unsplash
And now, a slightly dark and gooey poem for hypochondriacs…
Squelch
I heard the squelch of death again –
or was it just a neutron firing
deep within my boggy brain,
or possibly a cell expiring
down amongst a mucus mess?
It could have been my heart perspiring
(that may be a thing I guess)
or, deep down in the adipose,
the squealing of a fat-lump pressed
to serve as fuel, and I suppose
it might have been a small mutation –
“Pop!” (we get a lot of those),
a bronchiole’s sharp inhalation,
“Hiss!” a membrane’s gooey breath,
a bile-duct’s bitter salivation…
Probably, it wasn’t death.
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Photo by Pierre Acobas on Unsplash
Is anyone else more than a little bit broken from PICKING SHIT UP?!
Bobbing Mummy
If you knock something from the shelf,
No need to pick it up yourself!
Just leave it there upon the floor –
Whatever else is Mummy for?
Bobbing bobbing bobbing Mummy,
Bobbing bobbing Mummy.
What joy, a new construction set,
With bits that are the smallest yet!
Mummy’s here! It doesn’t matter!
Open box, prepare to scatter!
Bobbing bobbing bobbing Mummy,
Bobbing bobbing Mummy.
Got a wrapper in your hand?
Don’t worry! Drop it where you stand!
Perhaps your paper missed the privy?
Don’t despair! You have a skivvy!
Bobbing bobbing bobbing Mummy,
Bobbing bobbing Mummy.
Mummy has an education,
Wild ideas above her station,
Visions of equality,
I know right? That’s insanity!
She’s bobbing bobbing bobbing Mummy,
Bobbing bobbing Mummy.
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Despite the name of the poem… please don’t be a hexagon, lovely people… I much prefer dodecagons and splodge-agons!
You Have To Be A Hexagon
A hexagon,
A hexagon,
You have to be a hexagon,
Cos everybody knows it’s great,
To fit right in and tessellate.
But I am a dodecagon!
I might just be the only one,
This side is long,
And this one’s short,
And this bit’s weirder than I thought.
No no!
No NO!
A hexagon!
You HAVE to be a hexagon!
Such gleeful uniformity –
It’s how the world is meant to be!
But me, I am a splodge-agon,
A sort of blob with wobbles on,
A curvy individual,
A fun and floopy visual!
A hexagon!
A HEXAGON!
WHY CAN’T YOU BE A HEXAGON?
If you can’t look
Like others do,
I’m going to have to pick on you!
Don’t want to be a hexagon.
I’m sorry?!
A bland, six-cornered dullathon.
I’M SORRY?!
I just don’t want to tessellate,
With you and your identi-mates,
Who mock the eccentricity,
Of those who do it differently,
And I don’t NEED to fit your norm,
Each corner crafted to conform,
No no, I’ll floop, and stretch, and be…
A strange and perfect fit… for me.
© Nina Parmenter 2018
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Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash
Cauliflower Makes Me Poo
Cauliflower makes me poo,
It does! It does! I’m telling you!
These cute florets, they all beget
Poogeddon in an hour or two.
I thought “oh great! I’ll lose some weight!”
I piled it high upon my plate,
The poo deluge was REALLY huge,
I weighed myself – still ten stone eight!
So listen, if you’d like to try
Some weight loss via brassicae,
May I advise some exercise…
With cabbages strapped to your thighs.
© Nina Parmenter 2018
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In “George’s Marvellous Medicine”, eight year old George’s gruesome Grandma declares that growing is “a nasty childish habit”.
Now as the one who has to fund the growth of an almost eight year old boy… well… let’s say she had a point.
Growing Boy
He is not even eight,
But he eats like a bear,
Pile it up on his plate –
In a blink, it’s not there!
So I hide all the snacks,
(He’d consume the whole pack),
But I cannot, I cannot keep up!
As his belly peeps out
Of his nearly-new tops,
And yet MORE ankle sprouts
From his trousers, I shop
Like a ninja on speed
For the clothes that he needs…
Yet I cannot, I cannot keep up!
And those telescope toes
Punching holes in each sock,
Mean I’ll pay through the nose
For more shoes… Should I lock
Up the fridge, nice and tight?
Feed him shrink-pills at night??
For I CANNOT, I cannot keep up!
© Nina Parmenter 2018
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Photo by Enrico Mantegazza on Unsplash
I’ll let this one speak for itself!
Unsheath Your Sword!
I share my house with two small boys,
Who’ve wearied of construction toys
and bicycles and felt-tip pens,
And simply want to FIGHT LIKE MEN!
And so, all though the living room,
With shouts of “Fie! Await your doom!”
“On guard, my lord!” and “Tally-ho!”
The battle rages to and fro.
“Unsheath your sword!” cries number one,
“Disarm, foul wretch!” yells number two,
“Stand down, or I will finish you!”
And thrust and parry, through and through.
The dress-up clothes fly left and right,
Until a Power-Ninja-Knight
emerges, snarling, poised to fight,
“Behold!” he yells, “and fear my might!”
Then snicker-snack! His vorpal blade
streaks round the lovely home I’ve made,
I scream, “Just leave your brother be!”
But guard the telly bodily.
“Unsheath your sword!” cries number one,
“Disarm, foul wretch!” yells number two,
“Stand down, or I will finish you!”
And thrust and parry, through and through.
Too much! It’s getting on my nerves,
I hide the swords – but fresh reserves
are roused – the bits of pipe, the sticks,
The pistols made of lego bricks;
The Dark Lord, who is nearly eight,
exclaims “Accept your fate!” But wait…
A mortal wound! A hurty thumb…
The Dark Lord’s crying for his mum.
“Unsheath your sword!” cries number one,
“Disarm, foul wretch!” yells number two,
“Stand down, or I will finish you!”
And thrust and parry, through and through.
And so, the Ninja claims his prize,
“Bow down!” come his triumphant cries,
The Dark Lord staggers, bruised and spent,
And kneels, tear-stained and penitent,
Meanwhile, I count at least a score
of weapons strewn upon the floor,
My house is not a home, it’s more
the aftermath of Agincourt.
“Unsheath your sword!” cries number one,
“Disarm, foul wretch!” yells number two,
“Stand down, or I will finish you!”
And thrust and parry, through and through.
© Nina Parmenter 2018
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This a “concrete” poem – a poem shaped like the thing it’s describing. If it doesn’t look like the picture above, turn your phone on its side or get a larger device (wink wink). Now – gym knickers on, and let’s proceed.
School Sport
. School sport, Tick tock,
. simply a torture form Tick tock,
. a notch or five above the Oh watch
. norm, the most horrendous the clock,
. cruelty designed specifically When will
. for me, who has no puff & this finish,
. cannot aim – picked last this quest
. in every single game: to pillage
. School sport. pride and
. joy and all
. respect??
. In half my
. lifetime, I
. expect, as
. this is just
. a wheeze
. to squash
. my will, to
. bring me to my knees;
. for sticks and balls may hurt
. us all, but double games
. will break me.
© Nina Parmenter 2018
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Thanks to my Dad for this one (yes really), who sent me a picture of these lovely urinals (at Dobbies Garden Centre, Shepton Mallet – urinal tourists take note) and asked me to write a poem about them.
Well, I couldn’t find a poem within me about flowery urinals – but urinals in general – oh yes. To me, and I think to most women, the whole concept of urinals is just absolutely bizarre.
If it wasn’t bad enough for men that they have to unleash their todgers in front of complete strangers… surely it must be even worse having to do it next to colleagues?! Well. My female brain can’t even begin to imagine.
But maybe there’s an upside…
The Workplace Wee
If someone at work saw my Mary,
I’d resign just as quick as can be,
But men have to face this fear squarely,
When they go for a quick workplace wee.
They stand petrified in the toilet,
All three eyes staring blankly ahead,
One flicker, one movement could spoil it,
They might get the eyeful they dread.
But there’s power there, at the urinal –
Take young Billy, the purchasing clerk,
There he stood, between Jimmy and Lionel,
When out came a magnificent arc.
What a rainbow of clear, shining yellow!
His colleagues all gasped through the steam,
Jim gave in, glanced at Billy’s wee fellow,
And cried “Billy! You MUST join my team!”
Behind them, from inside the cubicle,
Where Frank, the big boss, was “in motion”,
A fanfare burst forth, loud and musical,
To celebrate Billy’s promotion.
So ladies, if you get the feeling,
A hunch your career’s not on track,
It could be the porcelain ceiling,
That’s holding us womenfolk back.
© Nina Parmenter 2018
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Unfortunately, I thought it was time for a Brexit poem. But as the whole thing is a complete farce, I thought I’d make my poem a bit of a farce too (I mean, it could happen, but…)
Last Tussle in Brussels
Somewhere in Brussels, March 2019,
Poor Theresa’d not slept since about Halloween,
But at last it was ready! The dream Brexit treaty,
Which pleased every spluttering zealot so sweetly!
So ready to sign it, she tried not to squeal…
Until Boris burst in and cried “NO BLOODY DEAL!”
Theresa yelled “shut it, you haystack-haired chancer!”
But Europe said “sorry, we’ll take your first answer!”
Then Macron and Barnier, Merkel and Juncker,
Cried “See ya, Theresa, we’re off to the bunker!”
Theresa gave chase; Boris stuck out a toe,
The Jimmy Choos buckled, and down she did go!
The bunker shut! Pawing the intercom button
And licking the speaker, she heard them all tutting,
Then Merkel said “Vile vee regret ze estrangement,
Zey cannot exist vizout formal arrangement!”
Theresa was screaming “JUST LET ME IN NOW!”
But she could have sworn Barnier cried out “KA-POW!”
Then she felt a great shake like the boom of a bomb –
And her satellite glasses showed… Britain was gone!
Well, after some hours of wailing and gnashing,
They found little Britain complaining and splashing
and shivering up by the cold Arctic Circle…
“Best wrap up vorm!” tittered Angela Merkel.
———————————————-
We last saw Theresa all sun-kissed and blustery,
Hiking the warm Euro hillsides of Tuscany,
Boris was found (well was dug up in parts),
With a hot Belgian waffle stuck right up his arse…
As for Britain – it’s time in the cold had begun,
The crops slowly died in the thin arctic sun,
Til a hobbit named Corbyn cried “Right! Who needs feeding?!”
And was hailed as a God with his frost-hardy seedlings.
And somewhere in Dudley, a “leaver” called Norris,
Polished his gold-plated statue of Boris,
And petting his bulldog (with hands somewhat frozen),
He gave a wry smile, and said, “that bloody showed ‘em.”
© Nina Parmenter 2018
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Photo by Chris Lawton on Unsplash