Love Is Blind ... (on National Poetry Day) : )

Infatuation here behold,
A poet with his morning brew,
Compiling list 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.

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)
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

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!

Copyright © 2015 Jonathan Humble

Faulty Tuesday

Fred The Meddler by NorthernJim
On an underwhelming weekday, Fred the Meddler volunteered to embark upon a quest to find the man
Who, from sources of impeccable credentials he had heard, was responsible for Tuesday’s faulty plan.
Having audited his inbox, with its plethora of mail from a host of disenchanted, irate folk,
All complaining that this Tuesday was defective at the best, and in some cases “beyond a bloody joke”,
This obliging, self-appointed, quasi-ombudsman set off by balloon (as was expected by the crowds,
Who, with rousing and absurd rendition of "La Marseillaise", sent him on his way up to the darkening clouds).
But while struggling to hold his course against prevailing winds, clumsy Frederick fell out from up on high,
Landing some would say quite luckily upon the scaly back of a dragon flying fortunately by.
After hurried introductions and apologies of course, Fred requested that the dragon set him down
Somewhere close to where the architect of Tuesday’s disarray had his office in the posher part of town.
But the dragon, feeling peckish (as it was around mid-day), flat refused to acquiesce to Fred’s request,
And without a by-your-leave, it scoffed poor Fred down in one gulp, leaving no time for the poor chap to protest.
Well the moral of this story is a little bit obscure, and one Fred the Meddler did not learn, alas:
Tuesdays often are a trifle disappointing I have found and it’s best to keep your head down ‘til they pass.

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

Fat Man Jogging ...

A callow, handsome, cocky youth, with cheekbones, teeth and hair,
In black and white smiles out from photograph with scarce a care;
With baggy eyes and cheekbones lost, and massive furrowed brow,
The older version wonders where the years have gone, and how.
And so to find this long lost youth, he pounds the roads at night,
Preferring that his moving flesh is kept well out of sight.
Until the time the youth returns, his body he'll keep flogging;
What is that tremor that you feel? It is a fat man jogging ...

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


In every household kitchen sits the humble toast machine,
A fundamental part of any culinary scene.
Ostensibly an old device for toasting breakfast bread;
You'd never think it could be used to natter with the dead.
Yet that's the tool the psychic friends of Odin utilise,
To contact those who've passed on subsequent to their demise.
This secret circle meet on every other Tuesday night,
To chant and dance in kitchens under eerie candlelight.
Then sitting round the table dressed in ancient Nordic gear,
One hand upon the toaster, begging Odin to appear,
They channel spectral energy emitted by each ghost,
Through those electric filaments more widely used for toast.

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

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 shite,
And despite his reputation, Doris loved Sid nonetheless
And their troths were plighted one fine starry night.
They eloped with gay abandon; 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 ...

Copyright © 2015 Jonathan Humble

The Pencil

The pencil wrote a learned note,
In which he dropped a Karl Marx quote,
So all could see his pedigree
In matters of great weight.
And by his side, awash with pride,
His chum the biro certified
In Garamond on paper bond,
His prowess in debate.
"We know our stuff!" was biro's bluff,
Although, in truth, not quite enough,
For biro's mind was unrefined;
Quite prone to blotchy spin.
And o'er the way, a rubber lay;
Hell bent on spoiling biro's day,
Before the pair, could both declare
A dialectic win.
"Your points are flawed," the rubber roared,
As pencil sharpeners guffawed.
"And for a Bic, you're rather thick!"
The rude eraser said.
A good retort, the biro sought,
But to his mind there came but nought;
In blotted ink, all he could think
Was “Go and boil your head!”
Then with a smile, and bags of style,
The pencil waited with some guile,
For all ensuing ballyhoo
To cease and give respite
And as he spoke, with heart of oak,
Defeating foes at just one stroke,
With peerless wit, quite exquisite
The pencil showed his might:
"You've sharpened wood, 'til points are good,
Erased mistakes where e'er they've stood,
But thoughts abide, unqualified,
Within this pencil case;
Do we agree technology
Could quite outmode both you and me,
With processed word quite undeterred,
'Til we are all replaced?
Come, let's be friends, as all depends
On how we now can make amends.
For lest we choose our wit to use,
The end I can foresee."
Then all around stared at the ground,
As thoughts became somewhat profound;
They'd not evade the moot point made :
2B or not to be ...

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?

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

The Salford Sock Society

The Salford Sock Society have meetings once a year at a quiet public house beside The Quays,
And upon the winter solstice, on the stroke of three o'clock, they will each roll up their trousers to the knees.
Using combs, they fashion hairstyles where the partings are quite low; just above the left ear, sweeping to the right,
And with scarves around their necks to brace against December winds, later on they venture out into the night.
In a circle, in the car park, they all gather to revere items from the chairman's briefcase, fine and rare;
One red football sock with grass stains from a match in '68, and a lock from off their saviour's thinning hair ...
"Bobby Charlton! Bobby Charlton! Bobby Charlton!" they intone, pulling down their own right socks each one in turn,
Then the relics with great reverence are passed round one and all, while the landlady brings tea out in an urn.
With all tributes now completed, they adjourn back to the bar to discuss Sir Bobby's triumphs heretofore,
Leaving free the car park for the yearly rites and rituals of the brotherhood that worship Dennis Law ...

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

Dear Dorian Gray Enterprises ...

I bought an item in good faith about six months ago which has failed to meet the stated guarantee.
I have followed the instructions (to the letter I might add), yet the end result has disappointed me.
I positioned the equipment in the attic, as it said, and then left it to fulfil the task at hand,

While awaiting for improvement through reflected evidence, ‘though I am not vain you have to understand.
I have gathered testimonials, enclosed at your request, to substantiate the lack of all success.
With the portrait now returned, a refund of the purchase price would be welcome at the following address …

Yours etc.
(c/o Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris).

Copyright © 2015 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!!!

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

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.

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.

Copyright © 2013 Jonathan Humble

The End ...

As we approach 'The End Of Days' and hope becomes despair,
Remember what the wise man says and find fresh underwear.
You will not find advice more sound, insightful or germane,
As inextricably all that we know goes down the drain.
For as the Maker waits for us beyond this mortal sphere,
She will not well appreciate the remnant smell of fear.
Resist the urge to run and scream, as headless as the rest.
Go placidly amid the noise in clean socks, pants and vest.

Copyright © 2015 Jonathan Humble