Loyal To The End ... Of The Sandwich

 
My dog sits so obediently besides this comfy chair;
His canine eyes epitomise intense and loyal trust.
Ostensibly, he's focused on his master's every move,
But is in fact observing an uneaten jammy crust!

JH
Copyright © 2015 Jonathan Humble

Pontefract Postponed (or Beware the Black Bonne Bouche)


While sitting by a tree within a wood last Wednesday week,
Perfecting transcendental yogic hovering technique,
A mystic would-be sky-pilot with pure unsullied soul,
Conversed with one determined to dislodge his aureole.
For pious Jim got chatting with Old Mephistopheles,
Who on a stroll to capture wayward sinners in the trees,
Discovered pure and lovely Jim, and thought it might be nice
To tempt him with some naughty ways denounced in Paradise.
Old Nick ran through the deadly sins, as impious tour guide;
From Avarice and Lust, to Envy, Sloth, Anger and Pride.
All swiftly were dismissed by Jim, with innocence intact,
Until the Devil tempted him with cakes from Pontefract.
"Where comest this fine black bonne bouche?" asked poor demented Jim,
As Greed quite overcame his mind and left him in a spin.
A knowing smile played on Nick's lips, as pointing to 'The North',
He doomed young Jim to liquorice addiction from thenceforth.
To Pontefract went fallen youth in such indecent haste
To sate his hedonistic need for Spanish sweet root taste.
And there amongst the local folk, damned Jim was left to dwell,
On Devil's mission in the darkest depths of Yorkshire Hell.

... apologies to Pontefract (it's a lovely place really :) )

Copyright © 2015 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 © 2015 Jonathan Humble

Calliphora Soup

A spider known as Doris, with a face of fangs and eyes,
Was an outcast in the circles of her kin,
As she found she much preferred the life and company of flies
Which, amongst the spiders, was a mortal sin.
For society expected her to eat her friendship group,
Having filled them full of venom from a bite,
Which converted all their vitals to a fine and tasty soup
That arachnids slurp with obvious delight.
She was ostracised and talked about and ridiculed galore,
But despite all the opprobrium and hate,
Found a bluebottle called Sidney who she came quite to adore
And decided Sid would be her lifelong mate.
She ignored his dirty habits and his lack of all finesse,
His propensity to hang around in muck,
And despite his reputation, Doris loved Sid nonetheless
And in matrimony both their troths were struck.
They eloped one summer's evening; bade their friends a fond adieu,
But unfortunately hadn't packed a snack.
And by midnight when our Doris felt a hunger pang or two,
Sidney's future looked quite ominously black.
In Shakespearian tradition star-crossed lovers have it tough,
And although Sid tried to tempt his wife with poop,
When a spider's feeling peckish, love is never quite enough
And the marriage was dissolved in Sidney soup ...



JH
Copyright © 2015 Jonathan Humble

A Happy Ending For Petrologists

A pebble sat upon a beach and thought, as would a stone,
Of whether in the Universe it was a soul alone.
For it could see no evidence to otherwise disprove
That rocks had not the wherewithal to think or talk or move.
And there with countless coloured stones, all smooth and weatherworn,
Supressed its angst, lay motionless, stayed quiet and forlorn.
Through summers and through winters, it endured its solitude,
In pebbly reflection, existentially it stewed.
It watched the sun, it watched the stars, it felt the rain and snow.
It contemplated life and death until it felt quite low.
And as its hopes diminished with each wave that crashed the shore,
It worried that it might be quite alone forever more.
Until it sighed aloud and solitude came to an end;
A fellow pebble turned and smiled and asked to be its friend.

JH
Copyright © 2015 Jonathan Humble

Cosy


You're in a kitchen by yourself,
The cosy's on the pot,
A little voice inside your brain
Starts badgering somewhat.
You do your best to be mature,
But then you find instead,
Before you know just what you've done,
The cosy's on your head.


JH
Copyright © 2015 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 © 2015 Jonathan Humble

Glad To Be A Dalek

I'm not your average Dalek,
You know the sort I mean,
All bent on domination;
Giving vent to all that spleen.
I like to think I'm different
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 © 2014 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 voyage as a camel 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 © 2014 Jonathan Humble