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Emily Joshua Poem
Only six months 'til Christmas...
Yes, just six months to go-
I'd best start making lists,
Buying bottles for' ‘rellies' who like to get pissed
And scouring for bargains at Tesco.
Only six months since the last one
And I've just finished paying the bills-
The credit card's clear
(Like that barrel of beer),
And I feel a bit green 'round the gills.
I'd better start writing cards soon;
(It’s much harder nearer the time)
But I just hope nobody dies:
Last year I sent Brenda's too early,
And her wake got quite a surprise:
Reading cards by the coffin,
Expecting sombre tones,
It said "Hope you get drunk
And make whoopee with Dunk! "
P.s. You know how to have a good time!'
It's only six months 'til Christmas.
I hardly remember why
We prepare for so long,
Get stressed when it goes wrong
It makes me just want to cry!
It's six months since the last one
And I forgot to send the socks to Uncle John.
I found them in the drawer,
Stuck right near the floor.
Never mind, I'll re-wrap them anon.
I know I sound like a miser
And it's the season of generosity,
But it's hard to be carefree
When I can only shop at Aldi
And my income is almost all gone.
This year I promise to be
More organised,
Thoughtful and full of good cheer.
Well... promises are made to be broken.
And anyway, there's always NEXT year!
Copyright Emily Joshua
Copyright © Emily Joshua | Year Posted 2019
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Emily Joshua Poem
Six Silly Sausages
Six sizzling sausages:
One two three,
Four five six.
Sizzling, SILLY sausages.
Why so silly?
Just listen…
Sausage number:
One “Wheeeee”
Two “Sizzzzzle”
Three “Crackkkkle”
Four “Bang!”
Five “Zeezeezeeeee”
Six …
Hang on-
Where’s sausage number six?
But it was too late.
Scrap the cat was
Licking his paws...
So...
Five silly sausages sizzling
And one cat purring.
Copyright Emily Joshua
Copyright © Emily Joshua | Year Posted 2019
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Emily Joshua Poem
The Politics of Hunger
The politics of hunger,
The politics of greed,
The politics of want and
The politics of need.
The swagger and the bluster
Of Trump rampaging free,
The bad deals made for Brexit-
Poor choices made by May.
Chemicals that will not degrade,
Plastics in every cell.
Good health eludes the poor-
They never shall be well.
The rich will leave the earth,
Off to planets new,
Whilst the humble will be left
But ruination cannot undo.
The politics of hunger
Juxtaposed with greed
But all we should want
Is to fulfil what we need.
Copyright Emily Joshua
Copyright © Emily Joshua | Year Posted 2019
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Emily Joshua Poem
Granny Doris Lives On
“There’s no such thing as rain in Tintagel”.
That’s what my Granny Doris says.
“It’s always lovely weather
For grabbing a bag of pegs”.
She ‘heave-ho’s’ wet laundry
Into a basket wide,
Then tugs and grumbles
To drag it all outside.
There’s no such thing as rain in Tintagel
Enough to stop my Gran
From hanging out the laundry
With her wrinkly little hands.
Even when it was raining-
And obviously that was rare-
She’d say “That drizzle’ll blow over”:
Laundry was her only care.
All was calm, all was bright,
Until Colin came to visit one night.
Colin was a hurricane
Of gargantuan force,
Sweeping across from America
Wreaking havoc and making a mess.
But poor Granny Doris,
Intent on pegging out,
Didn’t listen to the news
And had no clue about:
Colin the destroyer,
Colin the big, bad storm.
He’d blown the fence over
And was ready for so much more.
We drove against the storm
To reach her on Atlantic Way,
But as we opened the garden gate
Socks, knickers and tights flew our way.
Colin lifted Doris up in the air
By billowing up her skirt.
She waved a sheet which then unfurled,
And blew her up further.
Her little legs dangled
As Colin swept her off.
He took her out to sea
And we’ve still not found her yet.
They searched for days for Doris
But find her, they never did.
They only recovered her peg bag,
But not a single peg.
Then, days later, Mum
Turned on the radio.
The weather was announcing
Another storm to come.
And this is how I know
That there’s life after death,
‘Cos STORM DORIS was on her way-
The biggest hurricane yet!
copyright Emily Joshua
Copyright © Emily Joshua | Year Posted 2019
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Emily Joshua Poem
You Don’t Diet When…
You don’t diet when
You “shop” at a food bank
With never enough for tea.
No readies for treats,
No lattes or sweets,
Nothing extra for you or me.
You don’t diet when
You live by a gutter,
A newspaper lining for sheets.
Sleeping bag if you’re lucky,
And a patch not too gusty,
Or moved on to another street.
You don’t diet when
Your kids play truant,
Get pushed into gangs and take drugs,
Use knives, lose lives,
Live outside the law
And make you feel desperate and sad.
Copyright Emily Joshua
Copyright © Emily Joshua | Year Posted 2019
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Emily Joshua Poem
The Bunny
Soft, caramel-coloured paws,
Creamy, velvet underbelly,
Hoppity hop, hoppity hop.
Two ears appear,
Then the top of the head.
Eyes peeping over
The plant pot,
Hoppity hop, hoppity hop.
Bob-tail flashes white
Between the bushes,
Hoppity hop, hoppity hop.
A hole in the greenhouse.
A giant bounce- THUD!
Munch, crunch for lunch.
All the baby lettuces…
Hoppity hop, hoppity hop.
Later, a cheeky little bunny
Lies upon the lawn,
Lengthening in the sunshine,
Stretching out her paws.
A snooze, a warming rest,
All peaceful and contented,
Until the sun leaves the garden
And wakefulness recommences.
Up she pops, whiskers first,
Then nose and ears appear.
Back on her paws, into the house,
Through the open door…
Hoppity hop, hoppity hop.
Copyright Emily Joshua
Copyright © Emily Joshua | Year Posted 2019
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Emily Joshua Poem
Hither, Hi, Ho, Fairies Down Below
Hither, hi, ho, fairies down below.
They flit, they flee, from bush to tree,
Flying swiftly, leaping lightly,
Chattering, tinkling, always sprightly.
By day they can laugh and play.
But at night comes worry and fright.
As the gloaming swallows up the sun
It is the end of frollicks and fun.
For out come the snargles,
All piggish and smelly,
Gnashing dribbly fangs,
Tummies wobbling like jelly.
Their homeland was razed,
So they’ve moved to the woods
And discovered that fairies
Taste, ‘Oh, so good!’
Snargles snort and roam all night,
So all the fairies must take flight.
They try to hide, to not be found.
They’ve built a city underground.
And a clever healer, a fairy magician,
Has discovered the spell for which they’d been wishing.
The only problem is that it needs
A rare night flower with luminescent seeds.
Two brave fairies called Silva and Jet
Take on the toughest mission yet:
To fly to the bog where the snargles live,
And collect the flowers that the potion needs.
On a wild and stormy eve
Jet and Silva fly ‘pon the breeze.
They are disguised by cloaks of leaves
To hide at speed amongst the trees.
They flit, they flee, from bush to tree,
But watching before leaping, silently.
Until the stormy winds blow high
Just as a snargle forages by.
Poor Jet gets blown from her log
Into the smelly, sticky bog.
Silva leaps in his leafy disguise
And covers her from the snargle’s eyes.
And next to them, growing right there,
Are the tiniest flowers with seeds so rare.
Are they the flowers that they seek?
Yes! They take them and neither speak.
They quietly, carefully return home.
The spell is made- relief has come.
And now the fairies we will never see,
For they have a potion of invisibility!
copyright Emily Joshua
Copyright © Emily Joshua | Year Posted 2019
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Emily Joshua Poem
A Thoroughly Modern Monster
It’s hard to be a monster
Living in a modern world.
I’ve only got claws, not fingers,
And can’t even unlock my phone…
An Apple is no longer something to munch
And Orange turned into Everything Everywhere.
I now can’t eat runners for lunch
As I can’t even bite through their lycra!
It’s hard being a stylish monster
When you’re bald, spotty and covered in slobber.
I tried dating on tinder, but just got swiped left,
So now I think I’ll just not bother.
It’s impossible to buy clothes
As I seem to scare the staff,
So I’ve taken to living in the zoo
Hiding naked near the giraffes.
The animals don’t mind me.
The elephants like my smell.
If you spot me, do me a favour,
Just promise me you won’t tell.
Shhh!
copyright Emily Joshua
Copyright © Emily Joshua | Year Posted 2019
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Emily Joshua Poem
Upon the orange rock
The sun beating mercilessly down, Is now replaced by
Relentless rain
Pelting on pavements in the town.
Brushing through the bush
with stick in hand,
Rifle over the shoulder,
Is now succeeded by
Squashed inside the tube
Laptop bag tight on back,
Silent predators packed together.
And his mind turns back
To days upon the orange rock And blue, endless skies,
As he runs up the escalator, Deftly slides through
The barrier,
Worrying about the passing of time.
And… long…days...
Stretching as far as the
Vast limitless sky,
Are but a distant hint
Of a childhood that felt Empty, but strangely fulfilled.
This 'new life', this 'adventure', Had him hunting in a different way: Stalking code among the coffee cups To turn a profit for his bosses.
Ready for a big kill.
His fingers flew across the keys.
Despite the noise, the hustle and shoving The bushman stopped for a moment. He took a long, deep breath,
Eyes closed...
As he recalled his childhood
And felt once more at peace.
Copyright Emily Joshua
Copyright © Emily Joshua | Year Posted 2019
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Emily Joshua Poem
As I walk along the wooden boards
Flanked by firm railings,
I wonder how they used to cross
From mainland to castle,
Back when the bridge was
Stone and roughly-hewn wood.
The waves crash upon the rocks below,
Tide eddying into Merlin’s Cave.
Did they risk wind and raging storm
To get across with a message for the king?
Did they shelter on the main land,
Waiting for calmness to invite them in?
Tintagel… the remains tell only a tiny,
Practical part of the story.
What of the myth, the rumours, the history?
What of the dealings in the western outpost
For trade and travellers from afar?
We can never know the legend’s truth.
The mystery draws
Crowds to this centre
With magical depths and history.
I cross the sturdy bridge,
Wanting more than quotidien reality
To live on in the rocks beneath my feet.
The romance of this mythical place
Stirs my heart to feel
A yearning, a longing,
To become more than just
A person, a visitor, a tourist-
To be one with the myth.
To dissolve my life of
Petty daily needs and wants,
To emerge, a warrior, a maiden,
A minstrel, a foreign trader,
Or a simple visitor to the
Court of King Arthur.
Copyright © Emily Joshua | Year Posted 2020
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