nina parmenter

October 1, 2018January 8, 2022

Unsheath Your Sword!

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.

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September 22, 2018January 8, 2022

The Gathering

We’ve had some full-on weather over the past few days, and the night before last, the wind was really eerie. So I thought, why not freak everyone out a little bit more with a seriously creeeepy poem? You’re welcome.

The Gathering

The dusk hangs all jowly with menace and blood, the air
Shudders with creeping despair as the heave
Of the laden sky speaks of decline and disease
And the trees, glancing anxiously heavenwards
Whisper a prayer.

While a face at the glass
Tells the tale of a heart
That’s caressed by the fingers of fear
Deftly strumming
It’s coming
It’s coming
It’s coming
Can’t stop it
It’s coming
It’s coming
It’s coming

All at once the sky yields to the merciless press
As a death rattle rips though its chest, it relents
And the wind, too impatient for fanciful gusts
Simply ROARS. Timbers creak, while the curtain is thrust
In and out of the room with a suck like a labouring
Lung, and the carefully collated possessions we’ve gained
In our small, boxed-up years are snatched up with disdain
To be smashed on the walls of the dreams we were sold
Thinking we were the ones in control.

Then the rain comes in waves like the souls of the drowned
Streaking angrily back from the clouds, down and down
With revenge in their water-logged eyes. “HAVE A CARE!”
Scream the clattering bins and the torrents that pour
From the gutters, the walls that stand battered and sore
And the gardens that shiver as cold, laughing shadows
Wash light from their life-giving skies.

And the face at the glass
With its fevered eyes cast
To the roof of the world to which all life is clinging
Cries out, as it feels something visceral singing…
We’re coming
We’re coming
We’re coming
Can’t stop us
We’re coming
We’re coming
We’re coming

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Photo by SHTTEFAN on Unsplash

September 16, 2018January 8, 2022

Mariner Girl

Mariner Girl

Take me away, said the mariner girl,
From the islands of ought-to which circle the sea,
Let me be lady and lord of my world,
And let all obligation sink gladly from me.

The valleys are flowing with nonsense and noise,
As the hills raise their heads to command and cajole,
The air is a millstone which crushes my joys,
I will sail from the land, or else forfeit my soul.

Send me a star, said the mariner girl,
To blaze through my darkness and show me a path
Through the waves, to a place where my mind can unfurl –
Just me, and the sea, and my brave little craft.

The currents are flowing with maybe and might,
And the swells are a surge of why-not and just-be,
The salty-skinned air gives a kiss of delight,
As I sail from the land and join hands with the sea.

Farewell to you, restless mariner girl,
For I’ve neither a boat, nor the courage to sail,
As the land keeps me bound, so the sea claims its pearl,
But your spirit shines on in this dream-spinner’s tale.

Photo by Ahmed zayan on Unsplash

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September 16, 2018January 8, 2022

Six Word Fairy Tales

Something cute for a tired Sunday night… six word fairy tales!

SIX WORD FAIRY TALES

Cinderella
Pumpkin turns carriage
Prince offers marriage

The Elves and the Shoemaker
Business lacks clout
Shorties help out

Rapunzel
Scaling her tresses
Young prince impresses

The Three Little Pigs
Wolfie wants bacon
Brickwork frustrates him

Puss in Boots
Smooth talking feline
Princess makes beeline

Sleeping Beauty
Hundred year nap
Ended by chap

Beauty and the Beast
Loving what’s ugly
Renders it lovely

Hansel and Gretel
Candy trap foiled
Witchy gets boiled

Photo by Sandra Ahn Mode on Unsplash

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September 1, 2018January 8, 2022

School Sport

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.

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September 1, 2018January 8, 2022

There Are Days

There Are Days

There are days… when each moment crushes
While everything rushes
To some futile end

There are days… when every voice mocks me
My solitude shocks me
I’m blind to my friends

There are days… when I feel luck has played me
And choice has betrayed me
For giggles and thrills

There are days… when my ceaseless fixation
With self-reformation
Just worsens my ills

There are days… when fear shakes its rattle
Each step a tired battle
Of me versus me

There are days… when perhaps it’s all worth it
My mess is as perfect
As screwed up can be

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August 5, 2018January 8, 2022

The Workplace Wee

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.

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July 28, 2018January 8, 2022

Last Tussle in Brussels

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.”

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Photo by Chris Lawton on Unsplash

July 17, 2018January 8, 2022

I’m Alright Going Forwards, But I’m Awful In Reverse

The image above shows a genuine example of my parking.

In this case, I stepped out of the car, took in the results of my work, pointed and laughed at myself, and then took a photo.

But that’s not the end of my… er…. talents when it comes to motoring…

I’m Alright Driving Forwards, But I’m Awful In Reverse

I’m alright driving forwards, but I’m awful in reverse,
My turning skills are terrible, my parking skills are worse.
Whenever I move backwards, people hurry to disperse,
While someone calls a breakdown truck, a vicar – and a nurse.

I seem to lack the circuitry to know which way to steer,
And things are always closer than they actually appear,
Those parked beside me hover, as they sweat in mortal fear…
I fart about, the mean ones shout, the nice ones say… “oh dear.”

I’m terrified of places where the roads are single-track,
Cos a car might come the other way and force me to go back,
Careering blind from side to side, the hedges take a whack…
So please don’t swear, I WILL get there – I just don’t have the knack!

I’ve got a snazzy camera now, which shows me what’s behind,
It’s really great when going straight, but when I turn I find,
That I’m going left, the camera right, it makes my brain cells wind,
And a prang is much more likely with a whirling, swirling mind!

So I hit them in the car parks, and they hit me in the purse,
And I feel I’ll be afflicted with this mortifying curse,
Til the day they tell the driver as he parks my golden hearse…
That I’m alright driving forwards – but I’m awful in reverse.

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July 9, 2018January 8, 2022

My Garden, July, 7pm

My Garden, July, 7pm

As today’s performance nears its sticky close,
And the clement shadows enter from the wings,
Honey sun throws one last spotlight on a rose,
While in crowd-pleasing finale, blackbird sings.
Props lie strewn: abandoned clothes, a bug-smeared glass,
Garish toys form grubby rainbows on the grass…
And as hosepipe soothes my garden’s weary brow,
Daubed with dirt, my little cast take one last bow.

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