Long Grotty Poems
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The world was going to end in nineteen fifty-nine,
according to my grandma. I know; she told me so.
Not because of Russia and its threats of nuclear war,
but because Italians had moved into the house next door.
"The street, the neighbourhood, will rapidly decline,"
That's not what my friends and I thought, though.
My mum was just as bad, "they've painted their door bright red.
Brown is the only colour for a rightly English door.
Just look at it," she moaned each time we walked the street.
"Some people just don't understand, the nerve, conceit!"
"And have you seen the clothes she wears?" "You wouldn't catch me dead."
But my friends and I; well, we all said; blimey, cor.
My dad took me aside one day; sat me down, and said,
"Take care, the folk next door are not like us at all.
They're Jews or Catholics; one or the other;" he confines.
"I saw them all out yesterday dressed right up to the nines,
walking with a bag of fruit and strange-shaped bread."
My friends and I didn't care; they had an ice cream stall.
We became good friends; me, and the boys next door.
We pricked our thumbs and pressed; became blood brothers.
I learned cool words; Bellissimo, Chao; and in Italian how to cuss.
And in return, I taught them English words like grotty, snot, and puss.
Grown-ups were wrong about Italians moving in next door.
When you make friends, there is no them or us, or others.
Jaundiced Eye Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
Date wrote: 20-June-2021
PRETTY WITTY
Cocktail thirsty : Mocktail, Green tea.
Few Males naughty : Females pretty.
Toe nails: Twenty ; Vessel empty.
Slow snail, safety ; Cat- tail, fatty.
Road- rail dusty ; Snow, hail frosty.
Gravel: Grotty ; Pastel: Arty.
Lintel faulty ; Snacks sale: Salty.
In jail: Guilty ; Egg shell : Poultry.
Chisel : Acuity ; Repel: Pity.
Rebel: Haughty ; Nobel: Petty
Angel - Deity ; Blue bell: Beauty.
Slipped fell Humpty ; Ankle twisty.
Novel Party ; Revel: Sporty
Bread-gel : Tasty ; Ship sails: Hasty
Stay well: Hearty ; Gone Hell: Dirty.
E-MAIL: IT ; Marvels Mighty.
Not fretting couldn’t be gladder about getting podgy?
Forgetting about a stodgy bladder that’s definitely dodgy?
Sadder even snotty about needing a potty..regretting being dotty
Betting some grotty grumps about bumps & lumps anything spotty
Sometimes memory stumps.. only remember embers now befuddled
Somehow the huddled cast of the distant past still cuddled
Ashes of once clear flashes of near yesteryear appear muddled
Ribald oracle.. grinning about going bald...hair thinning
Apart from the ears and nose where it shows..grows & flows
Can't pretend follicle foes & woes.. do descend dear friend
Clearer you're now nearer to the rear end than the beginning
Refined increasingly find you do become more kind
Other than the tumour of another baby boomer
Defined needy seedy greedy.. must feed me consumer
Not a rumour..increasingly I pined for candour and humour
Chaps can perhaps blossom as a wined & dined late bloomer
No remorse.. scheming larrikin leaning's still in force
Gleaning the gleaming meaning of life is all about giving
Dreaming.. loving.. smile beaming and "living" of course
Simply absurd
Heard the news
Snotty residents
On pedants pews
Clear precedents
Vice do choose
Drive us potty
In arty farty mews
Latte & biscotti
With dotty views
Party always grotty
Spice will lose
A slutty hotty
Putty in her hand
Seedy queues
For smutty totty
Or bit of botty
Plenty of booze
A nutty hinterland
Hear our boos
Us well manned
Against this ruse
So underhand
With their coups
Good times banned
Westminster eschews
In pubs can't stand
Everyone poo poos
That's what's planned
If papers peruse
Chaos canned
Soho's Blues
She woke up to the song of the rising sun
Dealt with the domestic chores in one quick run
When it's time to set to the duty outdoors,
she locked those grotty wooden doors.
She joined her friends at the site
And majestically wore a shirt that's half white
She bunned her hair into a striped towel
Set her foot into the soil with a hoe and shovel.
The sweat on her cheeks salted her lower lip
The blisters on her palms gave her little grip
The tired muscles demanded a moment's rest
But no, she cannot afford to take the time's test.
She is the second's hand of a 24hr clock
To soothe her baby's hunger cries, she shouldn't cease to walk.
She knows just three things - work,work and work,
to nurture the baby whose long-gone father is a toxic shark.
Two hours of extra labour, would do the two a great favour.
Few extra drops of sweat,
Confer four extra drops of milk to her baby's gut.
When at the day's end, her stir-fried flesh returned home,
the smile on her baby's lips wiped the sweat on her cheekbone.
Battles of today gift blossoms in the long run.
After all, her baby's filled tummy was like a good shade under the hot sun.
CHRISTOPHER, BLAIR AND CLAIRE
Young Blair was a shy boy,
Somewhat a nerd,
He just simply could not make a friend,
The nursery school teacher,
Who was my mum,
Enjoyed her job so,
She was never glum.
Christopher was the lively one in the class,
There was a seesaw and jungle gym
On the grass,
Teacher told Christopher to please
Play with Blair,
Christopher asked, may I also bring Claire?
Claire was Christopher’s imaginary friend,
She was real to Christopher,
He didn’t pretend!
Break time, teacher and helpers were about,
As two dozen screaming children ran out!
Christopher very mischievous,
Thought of a plan
Quite excited, he said to himself, I’ll do it
Tomorrow if I can!
The next day,
He took something out of his school case
Put it in his pocket and showed a bland face.
Break time was very soon
Christopher thought,
And hid behind his back what
He had brought!
He whispered all, to imaginary Claire,
Don’t be afraid silly,
You sound too goody, goody and frilly!
He went up to Blair,
And put out his hand,
Do you really want to be my friend?
Then eat this, Blair desperately wanted
To be his friend,
So took a very big bite and went quite red
Blair spluttered and cried,
And gave everyone, a huge fright.
Teacher ran to the scene and found a
Half bitten chilli
Lying on the ground,
But Christopher was nowhere around,
He couldn’t be found!
I’m on fire teacher, the poor
Young boy said,
As his nose also bled!
Teacher had already phoned
The local doctor,
Christopher was now hiding, the little actor
Blair was asthmatic, which was another
Contributing factor!
Plump Doctor Dawson, said Blair
Would be fine,
Teacher did a headcount as the
Children fell into line,
She had a lost child, was about to
Call the police,
When Christopher appeared,
He wanted to make peace!
I’m sorry teacher he said, but girls
Are really naughty,
Claire made me do this terrible deed,
Which was grotty!
Christopher then offered Blair a hand,
Covered in grease,
The two boys wanted their cold war
To cease!
Being yet a child, and still with innocence,
Christopher said to imaginary Claire,
Come over here, and play
With me and Blair!
This is a true Story
There's no need to be alarmed, I'll wake up anyway,
perhaps today they won't hassle me, it will be better day;
ship was sinking, englishman said: 'Women and children first,
american said: '---- the women,' 'frenchman said: 'Is zere time?'
I listen to Chopin who designed his notes so beautifully,
the coordination from war-torn Poland categorically;
I ask myself - what did I achieve? No one had a life like me,
I broke hearts, like a cunning bridge player in spades and hearts.
Now time is running out, you wonder what death is like,
the only certainty, they say don't speak ill, but I'll strike,
at the unbelievable, how grotty some were, cast no doubt,
but then that's what this life was apparently just all about.
It's over, the hands are together, so tissue, tissue, tissue,
it's not just me but I bet you guys also had a few issue.
Who is a verse maker
Poetry is an odd art form practised where there are more
poets then writers because everybody, especially when young
has a poem (usually hormonal) that needs expression, some end
up as art teachers and prefer not to speak of their youthful attempts.
Seasoned poets go to poetry meetings, rather like alcoholics go to AA
there is always some new way, to express old truths
some of the old crusty ones run poem magazines and have a firm opinion
on how poetry should be written; the best of them
care more about content than writing rules.
The public, at large, only knows that poetry is romantic something
to do, with flowers and trees and love made on soft, green grass.
The real poetry world is a narrow one, those who are famous in that world
are spoken about with awe.
Old poets are grotty, smelly and eccentric, but are loved anyway.