Glad To Be A Dalek

I'm not your av'rage Dalek,

You know the sort I mean,

All bent on domination;

Giving vent to all that spleen.

I like to think I'm diff'rent

From other Dalek crew,
Who keep emotions hidden
While exterminating you.
I don't agree with killing,
With plans to subjugate.
The Universe is lovely
And I find it hard to hate.
In fact, I've got my own plan;
I'm working from within!
I'm teaching other Daleks
How to knit and sew and spin.
I run a secret workshop
Where Daleks can relax

And find their inner Dalek;

Get the monkey off their backs.

We try to be creative;

To make things, not destroy.

I run a Dalek choir

Learning Ludwig's 'Ode To Joy'.

So if you see a Dalek

In homeknit wool poncho,

Don't run off in a panic,

Come across and say 'Hello!'

JH

Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

Prayer of the Primary Teacher

Deliver me, ye gods of fate,
From experts high on self-regard,
Dispensing judgement and critique
With OFSTED ticklist or scorecard.
Take all these egomaniacs,
Ye gods of vengeance, I implore,
And seal them in a testing room,
To take the SATs forever more.
And just to reinforce their angst,
Their flesh should be exposed to pricks
From hosts of little goblin beasts,
Who poke them with their pointy sticks.

... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh ... men !

JH
Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

Tree

When as a spotty youth I sat upon that splintered form,
Outside the teacher's office with Bowes-Coleman, Joist and Lee,
I pondered on the question which the master had just set,
Pertaining to the odds of my employability;
What was my plan of action for the route that I would take
Next year, as at the 'World Of Work' I'd aim my shooting star,
And had I finalised the sphere in which my range of skills
Could be applied so that I'd rise beyond the base bourgeois?
A lawyer and a vicar, politician and a vet
Had been considered briefly and dismissed with mild ennui,
But then a light most Damascene shone down and lit the way,
And there and then I told the world "I want to be a tree!"


JH

Copyright © 2013 Jonathan Humble

Spread The Word ...

Geoffrey Augustus Barabas the Third
Decided he wanted to spread the good word,
And in his epiphanal state he set out,
Declaiming effusively like one devout.
He went on a visit to see his good friend,
Cordelia Bottle, who lived round the bend.
They talked all day long and for half of the night,
Until dear Cordelia saw a bright light.
"Hosanna! Eureka! I've got it," she cried.
"I see what you mean and it can't be denied!"
And now with a zeal the good word these two spread,
That Marmite and Sunpat are heaven on bread.

... Yum!

JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

Mick And The Tree Of Knowledge

Daft Mick the gnome, who loved to roam,
And often wandered far from home,
Once on a spree, a tree found he,
Awash with luscious fruit.
He clambered high, for Mick was spry,
His hunger for to satisfy;
But knew he not, the fruit he'd got
Was biblical to boot!
"Oh clever me!" quoth Mick with glee,
Whilst perched up in the 'Knowledge Tree',
As high aloft, this fruit he scoffed,
And spat the pips to ground.
Then God with might, and beard all white,
Brought down his foot from Heaven's height.
Acquainting gnome with all the loam
That layeth all around.

JH

Copyright © 2013 Jonathan Humble

Question From A Supernumerary

I feel a little in the way, a nuisance I suppose;

I'm like a green carbuncle on a supermodel's nose.

A fly found in the ointment, a worm upon a plate,

A banker's contribution to a probity debate.
A vegan at a hog roast, a snake inside a boot,
The water lapping at the feet of mighty King Canute.
A politician's promise, a long forgotten vow,
As useful as a set of wheels and jet pack on a cow.
I feel somewhat superfluous, important I am not,
As vital to the circumstance as camels on a yacht;
And so I have a question, asked with due humility,
Within an endless universe, what is the point of me?

JH

Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

The Life And Death Of Egbert

A constant source of worriment was Egbert van der Pyes,

Who drove his poor distracted Mum to premature demise.

The archetypal clumsy child was infant Egbert’s style,

With spills and thrills and accidents recorded in his file.

There was in everything he did, an ominous portent,
As any simple task became a perilous event.
At Sunday school he was the cause of catastrophic blaze,
As during Candlemas with flaming orange God was praised.
With violin, whilst learning how to play and to compose,
He managed to embed his bow right up his teacher's nose.

And at an exhibition of some prehistoric bones,

Young Egbert tripped, to bring down allosaurus on his own.
All through his life he stumbled at the edge of the abyss,
As chaos reigned about him, with bad luck his nemesis.
And yet, in truth, we have to note that through all this travail,
Our Egbert came out quite unscathed, to live all fit and hale,
Beyond the year three score and ten until, with hair all white,
He passed away aged ninety nine quite peacefully at night.

JH
Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

The Sad Tale Of The Reckless Rhubarb

'Twas on a clear and moonlit night by Castleford's green fields,

The stick of rhubarb's mind to thoughts adventurous did yield.

And turning to his nearby love, he made a solemn pledge

To sail away, like Hemingway, and live life on the edge.

His love, a slender leek, was anxious for his safe return,

But with a brave and loving smile, disguised her grave concern,

And pinned a white rose on his chest, that he might not forget

His roots lay in the rhubarb sheds of Yorkshire, not Tibet.

The rhubarb journeyed far and wide upon his reckless quest,

And seeking thrills where e'er he could from Goole to Budapest,

He soon became quite famous in the circles of those chaps

Who dice with death and thrive on courting danger and mishap.

But flirting with capricious lady luck, he soon found out,

How fickle fortune’s finger of ill-fate can turn about,

And duelling with a maharaja in the mystic east,

Our hero was chopped up and served with crumble at a feast.

Quite unaware of how her love had met a sticky end,

The faithful leek made wedding plans whilst waiting for her friend,

But over years, in Castleford, the leek was left unwed,

And sits in moonlight, quite alone, outside the rhubarb shed.

... Awww!

(Disclaimer: No rhubarb was injured in the drafting of this poem)

JH
Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

The Thoughtful Little Cactus

The thoughtful little cactus in the terracotta pot was a philanthropic soul of modest views,
And while musing on the state of things upon the mantle shelf, she would listen to the radio for news.
As an empathetic auditor, she catalogued reports, 'til she felt that something needed to be done,
'Bout the greed and the injustice and the nastiness she'd heard, and to try to make it nice for everyone.
So she wrote a manifesto with a view to sorting out all the problems written on her little list,
And she launched the greenest party that the world had ever seen, to become the first Pereskiopsitist.
Jaded voters used to third-rate politicians and their ilk, with their promises, their perfidy and spin,
In great numbers voted for the Cactus Party, and by tea-time sacked the Government to let the house plant in.
Then the thoughtful little cactus from her base at Number Ten, set about improving everybody's lot.
And she proved a better leader than all those who'd gone before, with it all done from a terracotta pot.

JH
Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

The Tragic Tale Of Sprout's Demise (being an explanation of the eating habits of some monkeys at festive times)

Before the ape forsook his tree, to totter upright everywhere,
There was an age, long past and gone, when sprouts had arms and legs and hair;
And in a world where I.Q. scores were running at an all time low,
The clever sprout bestrode the stage, proclaiming forth with fine bon mots.
And all the creatures were agreed that if poetic words were gold,
Their friend, the sprout, would surely be the richest by a good tenfold.
In admiration sprout was held by those who heard his words declaimed;
Except, that is, for one a little jealous of sprout's worldly fame;
For sulking in his tree aloft, old monkey felt he should be king;
To be admired throughout the land, deferred to by all living things.
And being of a nature dark, inclined to plot and stop at nought,
Skulduggery and wicked plan would be old monkey's first resort.
It wasn't long before his friends became aware of sprout's demise,
When in a nearby bush they found his legs and arms somewhat abscised!
Old monkey, questioned 'bout sprout's fate, denied quite flatly any part,
But gave the game away when he could not control a sprouty fart.
The rest is lost to history; we do not know what ends this scene,
Or how creation coped without their witty bard with leaves of green.
And many years have passed since sprouts could walk or talk of things sublime,
Yet many monkeys still enjoy a feast of sprouts from time to time ...

JH
Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

(... if you have been affected by events in this recount, help is at hand on the Sprout Lovers Anonymous Hotline)

The Perils Of Courtship (On A Windy Afternoon)

"It's a big nose, I will grant you," says the suitor to his girl, on their Sunday stroll one autumn afternoon.
"But just think of the advantage that our offspring will enjoy, as they keep their feet dry during a monsoon."

Smiling kindly, says his sweetheart: "It's a fine and handsome nose; aquilinity quite suits your face my dear!
But I do find fault my darling when the sun pays us a call, for I'm in a shadow caused by your left ear!"

So in order that his girl can feel the lovely autumn sun, he adjusts his head one quarter to the right;
But unfortunately, as he executes this gallant turn, autumn winds take hold and blow him out of sight.

JH

Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

There Was A Merchant Banker

I found myself recoiling at a banker's unctuous tone
That wafted through the airwaves from my radio today,
Bemoaning the injustice of a bad press for his ilk,
Defending the enormity of city bankers' pay.
I wondered at my feelings of revulsion for this chap;
Was this some knee-jerk class based jealousy or pers'nal quirk?
I wrestled with my conscience as I pondered deep and hard,
Concluding that in fact this banker was indeed a berk.

... and first against the wall, come the revolution.

JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

Behold !!!

A higher placed Authority arrived out of the blue,
Resplendent in a long white robe and sporting massive beard.
To say that I was shocked would be to understate the case,
For I was bollock naked in the bath when He appeared.
"Behold!" He said, with mighty voice "I come with joyful news,"
And round the bathroom scanned as if unsure of the address,
Then spotting me within the tub, as for the sponge I groped
In bashful and quite vain attempt to hide my nakedness,
This testamental apparition stared at me aghast,
With obvious embarrassment, He fumbled in His gown,
To bring out from some deep recess an old and crumpled note,
From which He read inaudibly, and gave an ancient frown.
"Apologies!" He said, at last and with a flourish grand,
He disappeared before my eyes to where I've not a clue;
My only hope was that where'ere it was, the host He sought,
Was fully dressed and didn't have their bits and bobs on view.

JH

Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

Beware Of Spoons

As Jim sat in the kitchen,
One Tuesday afternoon,
He let his mind drift aimlessly,
While gazing at a spoon.
The strange distorted features,
That stared back at his face,
Grew angry and affronted
By Jim's lack of social grace.
And grabbing our poor hero
Quite roughly by the ear,
The image pulled Jim off his chair,
Beyond our mortal sphere.
And left upon the table,
That Tuesday afternoon,
No clue to Jim's new whereabouts,
Except a bloody spoon!

Mwuah ha ha haah!!!

JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

Don't Fear The Reaper

While on his way to harvest souls,
Grim Jim the Reaper paused,
As on the breeze he caught the sound
Of distant, well-fed snores.
And on a whim, despite the list
Of folk he ought to meet,
Grim Jim decided he should find
Which mortal was replete.
So through the woods and over fields
He strode, as on a quest,
To boost his set appointment list
With one he'd mark as 'guest'.
And in a clearing, by a stream,
The soul to be deceased,
A plump and comely maid asleep,
Snored by her campside feast.
Yet as he raised his scythe aloft
To send her on her way,
A strange unheard of thing occurred
To ruin Jim's whole day:
Distracted by her lovely face,
His heart gave out a beat,
Which for a long dead organ
Was a most unlikely feat.
And in this state of mortal lust,
His loose held scythe fell free,
To cleave from shoulders
Jim's own head; a grim decapitee.
And so the reaper reaped himself,
To join his list of dead ...
Which proves that sex at work is bad,
If you're to keep your head!


JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

My Camel's Name Is Brian

My camel's name is Brian,
He lives beside my bed,
He has concerns about the ache I have inside my head.
Not everyone can see him,
As camels go, he's small;
In fact my wife and doctor don't believe he's there at all!
But being empathetic,
Dear Brian talks with me;
He tucks me in at bedtime and he makes my morning tea.
In many ways he's perfect,
I only have one grouse;
I do wish he'd stop leaving little piles around the house.

JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

God Save The King

O mighty hallux toenail,
Protruding and unbowed,
A king amongst all other nails;
So strong, so thick, so proud.
As legend, is your toughness;
You're hard, like granite rocks,
But now your days are numbered,
For you're wrecking all my socks ...

JH

Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble

Ballad Of The Fruit Bowl

The speckled ripe banana lay alone inside the bowl,
And worried 'bout the consequence for his immortal soul,
Because he'd sung his friend, the pear, an optimistic ballad
Two minutes 'fore she was chopped up as part of a fruit salad.
He wondered if he'd let her down, because in him she'd trusted;
Oblivious to his own fate, as he was doused in custard.
And so we learn that optimism in the bowl of life
Is hopeless, once the Chef decides to wield the salad knife.

JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

The Haggis Botherer



Beware the haggis botherer,

It lurks where none can see,

And bides its time quite patiently,

Be-sporraned near Dundee.

It stalks its prey most doggedly,

And tramps the purple heather,

In wellies worn below the knee

In dreadful scottish weather.

The haggis grazing in the wild,

No notion of its fate,

Will chomp away quite merrily,
Until it's all too late.
In blur of knee and sporran
Ends this tale of life and death,

And amidst the lowland drizzle

Haggis takes its final breath.

But botherers are rare now,

Their prey is often farmed.

And numbers are adwindling

To naturalists' alarm.

So be aware you tourists

Of haggis sold in shops,

You might be taking food away

From baby botherers' chops.

JH

Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

Here's One I Made Earlier ...

I look at you.
You look at me.
Your eyes reveal a heartfelt plea.
The egg that's smashed,
Now oozes out
Upon the kitchen tiles and grout.
You sweep a beat
With rhythmic rear,
And cock a hopeful floppy ear.
My heart; it melts,
As from your nose,
A dewdrop dangles unopposed.
I step away,
As herebefore,
The mess is lapped up from the floor.
Your service done
With willing tongue,
I start again my egg fooyung.

JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

The Traveller's Tale

When I was young and fluffy,
And my bow a lovely blue,
I'd spend the days with other toys
And play was all I knew.
The world outside was hidden,
Until I lost my eye.
I thought a patch would do the trick;
A pirate's life I'd try.
But when your fur goes missing,
And your stitches come undone,
To little Jim or Celia
You cease to be much fun.
My playroom days were numbered,
I sensed the doom within.
By Christmas it was time to go
Into the rubbish bin.
However, dearest reader,
Don't worry or feel sorry,
I've seen the world, tied to the grille
In front of this bin lorry!

JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

Vest!

There is a dream I have at night,

It's witnessed from afar,

In which momentous world events

Include my avatar.

This second me will get involved

In solving major issues,

My doppelgänger cures the cold,

So there's no need for tissues.
He strides across the Middle East,
Removing all dictators,
Then liberates ill-gotten gains
From bank manipulators.

He sorts out eco-problems

And explains the Universe,

So Einstein can complete his work.

But then it all gets cursed,

As all this work for good

Is put to question and the test.

Why is he semi-naked,

Dressed in underpants and vest?

JH
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

Postcard From Beyond The Looking Glass

I said goodbye to sanity one Thursday late in June.

I kissed it fondly on the cheek and gave it a balloon.

It soared into the clear blue sky under a gibbous moon.
I shed a melancholic tear and sang a mournful tune.
I parted from reality, after a pipe or two,
And surfed across dimensions on a wave of irish stew,
The recipe for which was told me by an old gnu,
In transit on a scooter to romantic rendezvous.
The first postcard I sent en route to Lunacy was dear,

I bought it in a kasbah in a back street in Tangier,

From five performing oysters with a taste for yorkshire beer,

And all with scottish accents, which I found a little queer.
The terminal provided for the weary and confused,
Was furnished quite eclectically to calm and keep amused
The screw deficient travellers, who wandered and perused
The waiting room in search of comfy chairs on which to snooze.
My life now is anomalous, with chaos everywhere,
But I've made most uncommon friends, and what we have we share.

I spend my time with Baxter, an eccentric white March hare,

And I am happy here beyond the looking glass somewhere.

... wish you were here ツ

JH

Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Humble

Love Is Blind

Infatuation here behold,
A poet with his morning brew,
Compiling lists of similes
To illustrate his love for you.
He brings to mind your haunting face,
That none would say was bland or plain,
Which once observed, is always there;
Forever seared into the brain.
Round casements set below the brow,
Is how he now compares your eyes,
That like two bright celestial orbs,
Spin madly off across the skies.
And after past time childhood break,
Your traumatised and wayward nose,
Set in an artful Cubist way,
Now asymmetrically goes.
And when a laugh plays on your face,
Your ruby lips contort with glee
Like courting worms within a soil
Laced lavishly with L.S.D.
The poet drains his mug and sighs,
His heartfelt love now truly told,
His wistful gaze declares to all,
The beauty which his eyes behold.

JH
Copyright © Jonathan Humble 2011

The Voice

Obsessively, compulsively,

I check on every door.

The windows are all firmly locked,

The fire is no more.

The fridge is shut, the gas is off,

I hear no dripping tap,

And every plug is out,

Thereby avoiding a mishap.

I've made sure all the lights are out,

It's nearly time to go.

Appliances in every room

Are sorted now, and so,

I reach the front door hopeful that

The house is safe, but then,

A voice inside my head says:

"Now go check it all again!"

JH
Copyright © 2010 Jonathan Humble