Harold the coffee pot jumped out of the card drawer and went on a walk
A chicken in the kitchen on top of the oven saw him and began to squawk
The coffee pot hushed her by promising her coffee if she would settle down
He was quickly ambushed by an overly inquisitive questioning silver clown.
I just want to take a walk, he told them. I have been in that drawer forever.
A stuffed dog began to follow him, licking his neck, his name was Clever.
Harold ran for his life and got into the drawer where he stayed.
with no desire to leave, which means he never again got lost or strayed.
If Harold had spied with his little eye
the arrow flying his way
at the Battle of Hastings in 1066
the English may have won the day
but the French bastard William the Norman
prevailed and won the upper hand
to conquer the last Anglo-Saxon king
of this green and pleasant land
when King Henry V led his army of archers from Wales
at the Battle of Agincourt in 1415
in revenge the English to the French did bid 'Adieu'
which began the tales
longbowmen were first to finger the V-sign 'pluck yew'
but it's merely a myth it's not true
Howard thought holes in his jeans was fashionably in style
He tore them all down the pants leg, wearing a smile
His mother told him he could not leave the house on his horse
Unless he wore long underwear, and he did it of course
He was glad he did, for these holes were in the wrong places
He had torn the holes in his jeans in some mighty weird spaces
Someone said how lovely the orange was showing through
Come see me tomorrow he told her, I’ll be wearing blue
Henry Harry Harold Hubert Hedgehog he
Rolls himself into a prickly ball, let’s let him be
When predators come to annoy, torment or play
His prickly thorns discourage them to go far away
Harold was all bluff and guff
brusque and rough
his words sometimes pinched cheeks too hard
with his honest plain Tennessee talk
Some thought he was rude
he had no filter
he was abrupt
but not corrupt
a few of us appreciated his honesty
Harold is the most hostile chimp king we have ever had
I said “he could not be tougher than my angry granddad”
Then I met him, and he was real bad with a skull for a crown.
Surrounded by roses, pheasants and feathers, ram horns made a sound.
He is rather frightening I admitted, for I was afraid of his gold eyes.
I am afraid of him too said Queen Mother, his mom – no big surprise.
Big Lulu came by and kicked Harold off his throne with much glee.
Having no idea that she was his wife, I was astounded by she.
The case report of a serial killer who worked at several hospitals as a respiratory therapist is presented.The suspect was initially labeled a benevolent Angel of Death who ended the suffering of elderly patients through mercy killing. However,his subsequently declared motive for homicide was very different from other similar cases in medical settings. The application of new analysis techniques for the detection of pancuronium bromide injection in a series of aged exhumation tissues gave positive results and led to the resultant conviction of the therapist.
Note.Dr Zafar Supari killer.
Harold was the loudest singer in the caroler group.
Many got irritated at him, but when they reached a stoop.
The people inside heard them loud and clear.
Mostly because Harold’s loud singing voice was here.
We argued sometimes about tossing him out.
But he loved the caroling group, one said with a pout.
So we kept him in, until he got too old to come along.
Without him we were never in as great a spirit or as loud a song.
A mental void, uncaring stance
Was it greed or was it askance?
Always those that confess
To having the answers,
Yet he fools all of them
The noose his only friend.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
The mind is the devil, not the heart,
when in doctor’s garbs, can’t tell apart,
an engaging smile, then the death blow,
some died real quick, some very slow.
the touch was soft, voice saintly gentle,
poured potion with love to dismantle,
they drank never to wake up again,
did they die in peace? was it in pain?
went from home to home to rob the old,
his eyes shone kindness, his heart was cold,
He held their hands to win their deep trust,
offered not cure, but eternal dust!
His heart would have writhed within in strain,
his conscience looked at him with disdain,
yet mind was blinded by pure evil,
curing hands were now tools of devil!
No one immune to Satan’s designs,
between good and cruel no clear lines,
face no longer is index of mind,
learn to peep farther, deeper behind!
3rd Placement
Written 31/08/2022
9 syllables each line, 5 quatrains
Joe Maverick Sponsored
Harold Shipman contest
Harold Shipman, known as Fred,
killed 250 patients dead.
A serial killer prolific -
“Angel of Death” or “Mr Horrific”?
In Shipman’s Aftermath
Medical practice in England got changed
so that if others also deranged
would try to do the same things as he
they couldn’t deceive so easily!
The day before age 58
he hanged himself, a fitting fate.
A monument to his victims do see
in the Garden of Tranquility.
Aug. 27, 2022
For Joe Maverick's Dr Harold Shipman Poetry Contest
Harold and his cousin belligerent bossy big idea Bob
Formed an insect removal company, Spiders no Prob
They had no issues until a call really late this afternoon.
Harold was walking toward it when something blocked out the moon.
At first he thought it was a statue and was not concerned at all.
But then he saw it open its mouth, and his blood ran into stall.
His breathing was fast and erratic, and he felt a sense of fear.
He had never seen a spider like this creature that was near.
The spider began to chase him and Harold promptly wet his pants.
Go back in there and get him! Bob said. Harold yelled "NO CHANCE!"
Harold loved marigolds, his favourite flower
One day he ate some and they tasted quite sour
So that was the end
Of his passion, my friends
After that, he only ate roses with carrots and cauliflower
When I met him
his hair was grey
And his wisdom shone forth
like a beacon
He knew that Shabbes
is an important
part of Judaism
He palyed guitar
and led us in prayer
He loved his family, his synagogue, his church
Gone from the Earth
Rabbi Harold Smith
Harold hangs at the old police station now
An old miner or an overlander they say
Not everyone will see him as he takes a bow
He’s as quiet as a mouse when you stay
Nobody knows how he came to be
Perhaps he died in the cells one night
After a night on a drinking spree
Those attuned to him will see him outright
The Friends of Blinman House have found him again
Not a malevolent spirit whose presence is flaunted
He returns to the House as a friend
You may see him if visiting Blinman House as it’s haunted.
© Paul Warren Poetry
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