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)
Copyright © 2015 Jonathan Humble


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.

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!'

Copyright © 2014 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.

Copyright © 2015 Jonathan Humble

The Tripe Hound Of Little Ormstonmere

Amongst the dark foreboding hills of ancient Lancashire,
The eerie howls rolled down the moors o'er misty peatland bogs,
To echo round the cobbled streets of Little Ormstonmere
And cause the good folk there to stare and shudder in their clogs.

For knew they well this howl from Hell and what it did portend,
And how great loss was wreaked upon the town in times long past,
When from the realms of Lucifer, the beast's leash did extend,
And Tripe Hound ran amok, to leave all mournful and aghast.

With sadness and reluctance moved the townfolk to the square,
Each citizen a-burdened with a tribute to the feast,
Which grudgingly they lay upon a table by the Mayor,
Who checked its weight would satisfy and sate the evil beast.

Then from the hills emerged the brute with eyes aflame and cruel,
As townsfolk scuttled off to hide behind their bolted doors
And leave a trough of tripe o'er which the Tripe Hound could now drool,
And scoff the lot, before it disappeared amongst the moors.

No morsel left for Little Ormstonmerians to eat,
The town would have to live on offal served up in a skin.
With tripe now gone, and plans postponed for all to be replete,
Black pudding topped the carte du jour and stopped them getting thin.

Amongst the dark foreboding hills of ancient Lancashire,
Satanic howls can still be heard o'er misty peatland bogs,
And there behind locked doors the folk of Little Ormstonmere
Have cause enough to hide their tripe and shiver in their clogs.

Copyright © 2015 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.

Copyright © 2015 Jonathan Humble

Mick And The Tree Of Knowledge

Old 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.

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.

Copyright © 2015 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!

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