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Best Poems Written by John Davison

Below are the all-time best John Davison poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | John Davison Poem

Rampant Lethargy

R is for the repeated distortions of facts,
A for press articles written with hacks,
M for the emphasis placed on survival,
P for the piss taken out of your rival.
A for analogies that never convince,
N for false narratives making us wince,
T for traditional values cast-off
   That cause umpteen scholars and clergy to scoff.

L is for lovers whom I dream of all night,
E for electric bills high as a kite,
T for temptations I can’t keep at bay,
H for Matt Hancock - please God stay away!
A is for the arse he fondled intensely,
R for resigning - we respect that immensely,
G is for the government of which he was part, and
Y for the yes-men aboard that rotting cart.

Details | John Davison Poem

Wave of Fantasy

Let’s sail away to Acapella,
A celebrity haunt owned by Penn and Teller.
I shall act as your prince, you’ll be Cinderella
When we’re sat on a beach in Acapella.

It’s not as sexy as Cannes or as dowdy as Rhyl
But their choirs and ensembles will give you a thrill,
Acapella compares well to old Casablanca,
As you will observe once we have dropped anchor.

Their libraries don’t hold any musical score,
Acoustic folk singers are considered a bore,
All keyboards and trombones were sold overseas
And whistles restricted to football referees.

So you won’t hear the bagpipes of Kenneth McKellar
Or repetitive bass notes plucked by Paul Weller.
Your voice will entrance all the ladies and fellas
Once we’ve moored in the harbour of Acapella’s.

There fishermen bring ashore haddock and bream
Having sung shanties as a well-rehearsed team,
The salty sea breeze gives their voices a rasp
And the youngest amongst them let out a gasp!

Melodic and manly, the crews ride the waves,
Proud of their seamanship, masters not slaves,
They heed the advice of their mothers and aunties
But rarely acknowledge the source of their shanties.

Once a solitary busker was found in a yacht
And by all accounts he deserved what he got,
He was forced down the plank at the tip of a sword
Then his vintage viola was flung overboard!

On the pier you’ll find orators and callers at bingo,
But no jukebox is pumping out John, Paul or Ringo.
Pop or rock music gives locals the creeps,
It’s no wonder that George’s guitar gently weeps.  

So, if Customs Control takes your squeezebox or trumpet
Don’t seek compensation, you’ll just have to lump it;
Those instruments go to a processing plant 
Because singers are welcome but musicians aren’t.

We shall seek out the nightlife in numerous bars
Where the locals all sing without playing guitars,
Dodge the Lambrettas in quaint cobbled alleys,
Then stride across hills and along peaceful valleys.

So, if you’re tired of concertos or singles by Queen
Book a cruise to a place where they’re considered obscene,
It’s a magical island owned by Penn and by Teller -
The remote principality of Acapella.

So let us sail forth across the briny
In a luxury yacht - well furnished and shiny
To where your vocal range will be valued quite highly,
And you won’t have to sit through Baba O’Riley.

Details | John Davison Poem

Domestic Order

The kitchen's disinfected, the worktops squeaky clean,
The laundry's in the wardrobe and nothing's left in the machine.
The crockery is washed and dry, it's stacked in cupboards, looking neat.
There's just one nagging problem, I've got nothing left to eat!

Details | John Davison Poem

Brian Finds Breakfast - Nursery Rhyme

Look at Brian the badger 
   Slinking through the grass
Sleeping Susan rabbit 
   Doesn't see him pass.

Hunting for his breakfast
   Every single night
Brian's not very fussy
   He simply wants a bite.

Finds a broken ladder,
   Scratches on a rung,
At last he finds some breakfast
   He licks it with his tongue!

Did that make you hungry?
   Is this story real?
I guess you're looking forward
   To tomorrow's meal?

01 March 2023

Details | John Davison Poem

The Old Bill

Bill Shakespeare is wanted for hate speech,
His study’s surrounded with tape.
The local police were slow to react,
He may already have made his escape.
There’s a chance that he’s gone into hiding
To work on the draft of a play;
Anne Hathaway helps with enquiries:
Where’s old Bill? She’s refusing to say.

She cannot abide the intrusion,
As detectives examine each sonnet,
If she pops down the market she wears a dark cape
And hides her face under a bonnet.
She’s missing the warmth of her husband,
His sensitive hands and dark beard.
She hopes that they’ll soon be together
But meanwhile, her dear Bill’s disappeared.

And Bill’s understandably nervous
’Cause writing these plays is quite hard.
He enjoys married life with his beautiful wife
And his neighbours now call him “The Bard.”
The risks of a long legal battle
Could distract him for over a year,
If the courts rule against his linguistics,
That might end his productive career.

This poem references the emotions of fear, hope and love now that historic scripts are frequently re-appraised - and sometimes condemned - against modern norms and expectations.

Details | John Davison Poem

Mister Jones

If you're sitting comfortably and have locked your mobile 'phones,
I'll tell you all a story about Indiana Jones
I met him on a wooden bench whilst strolling through a park
He was mumbling incoherently about some missing ark

At some point back in history, a loaded ark set sail
The animals had disembarked according to his tale
Instead, some coins and jewellery were loaded from the dock
But several chests were not secured and the hull began to rock

I offered him some peppermints to show my gratitude
And listened hard for any hints of track or latitude
His plans seemed very tentative but he clearly had ambition
But didn't even know the name of this ark, or its position.

The headland where the ark decayed was really quite remote
And the islanders with crates of gold, they didn't want to gloat
The bodies of the final crew were never, ever found
But Mister Jones was quite convinced - that ship had run aground.

The barmaid had a hunch the wreck was east of the Azores
But she had no time for banter, 'cos she had to do her chores
If she shared her speculation, she'd be scolded by her mum -
Were it not for weekly meetings, they would not be selling rum.

I never went back to that pub to meet that motley crew
Whose plans seemed quite ridiculous, I had better things to do.
If you are ever tempted to sail away in stormy weather
Steer clear of men with stubble, wide-brimmed hats and shabby leather.

Arks are ships of substance with many planks and beams
Losing one is careless and much harder than it seems
If a fellow on a park bench engages you in conversation
Stand up to him and shout “Raid an ark of known location!”

Details | John Davison Poem

Free To Roam

When devouring a hot chicken pie
An advertised flat caught my eye,
     I would hazard a guess
     Judging from its address
That the asking price wasn’t too high. 

I collapsed in a state of deep gloom
When the landlord denied me that room,
     He said “Nothing’s worse
     Than a chap who writes verse!”
Within minutes I started to fume.

After snatching some six hours of sleep
I thought I should challenge that creep,
     For with scant explanation
     His discrimination
Might cause a young snowflake to weep.

I knew I should counter his crime
With an angry yet passionate rhyme,
     He was powerful and scary
     And so arbitrary,
And his property’s well past its prime.

My letter, dispatched the next day,
Employed words that I’d rather not say
     (They are not in the bible),
     Then he sued me for libel,
So his rent I’m not able to pay.

So the lesson is easy to see -
Do not venture to write poetry.
     It could end in defeat
     Then you’re stuck on the street,
Simply begging for coffee or tea.

Details | John Davison Poem

Bethlehem Baby

While shepherds watched their flocks so white
All contemplating dusk,
Their ’phones received some breaking news
All thanks to Elon Musk.
His Tweet announced a virgin birth
In a stable by an inn,
They danced around the windswept heath
To a flute and violin.

In Bethlehem was born a child
A-sleeping in a crib,
They scrolled the Twitter crowd’s response 
And thought it rather glib.
The innkeeper was quite concerned 
That crowds would congregate,
Quick-thinking Joseph found some wood
And made an extra gate.

A star was shining overhead
That none had seen before,
No pundit was prepared to talk -
Not even Patrick Moore.
The stationers caught unawares -
They hadn’t got a clue;
A strong demand for calendars
For ADs One and Two.

The cattle started lowing -
As only livestock can -
The news spread fast across the plains
To every working man.
The shepherds all were gobsmacked as
Emotions ran so deep,
The spectacle of three wise men
Sure beats watching sheep.

A cub reporter scrambled
As the iPhone users scrolled,
Instructed to get pictures of 
Some frankincense or gold.
The wondrous child lay fast asleep
In swaddling clothes and fur,
A shawl fell from His mother’s back
As she spied the gift of myrrh. 

When wise men booked rooms overnight
The licensee did smile,
But camels tethered in his yard
Left a substantial pile.
The faith that followed Jesus’ birth
Did prosper and endure,
But spare a thought for stable lads
Recycling that manure.

Details | John Davison Poem

Unsmart Metre

I’ll apologise here at the start
For this verse won’t appeal to your heart.
So banal, it’s a shame
But I’ll shoulder the blame
’Cos it's not rude, nor funny, nor smart!

Details | John Davison Poem

Waiting For Acceptance

Now Buxton is the place to stay when hiking in “the Dales”,
But your schedule’s shot to pieces if you’re troubled by strong gales,
On a campsite in the Pennines the wind was blowing bitterly
I confided to the warden’s wife, “Next year I’m off to Italy”.

So I asked my boss for overtime and accrued a tidy sum,
My girlfriend don’t like pasta so she didn’t want to come,
I planned to see some galleries and architectural sights,
I borrowed several brochures and I booked some budget flights.

I met a waiter in a restaurant on a vibrant street in Pisa,
He’d offer me a holiday if I were not a geezer.
Could I shake off the tradition or am I wedded to my gender?
It’s a fashionable mission. Should I let him call me Brenda?

I like the foods of Italy, they’ve tonnes of tasty meals
But would I ever feel relaxed in a necklace and high heels?
Oh I’d return from Tuscany with fond romantic tales
Of operatic ecstasy and tall Italian males.

People shed their inhibitions, often break their wedding vows,
Would he buy me splendid dinners if I wore a skirt and blouse?
Could I elongate my lashes and step out in jewels and finery?
Is it time to leave this closet and declare myself non-binary?

Should I use the ladies’ restroom or still hang-out in the gents’,
Simply tell the folks around me that I’m sitting on the fence?
If I walked into the barber’s shouting "Rid me of this beard!"
Would he relish my exuberance, or think me rather weird?

I’d talk no more of football teams or the merits of real ales,
I’d think about nutritious food and the colour of my nails.
I would give up wearing neckties and my slacks would be less dismal,
I might sit at a reception desk, though the pay would be abysmal!

I might alienate mates if I keep changing genders,
Should I book into a clinic? - no the prospect sounds horrendous!
I still prefer to lead when I’m dancing down at gigs
And I’ll be auctioning my wardrobe full of brassieres and wigs.

My local mosque has two approaches, men and women are divided,
They’ll soon need an extra doorway, for committed undecided.
Subdivided laundrettes are another implication,
I think I’ll ’phone that waiter and decline his invitation.