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 © 2014 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 © 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 located 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.
Quasimodo
(c/o Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris).


Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

Under The Bed ...

There's a ghost inside my wardrobe, there's a ghoul under my bed,
And behind the curtain lurking hides a zombie from the dead.
In the dark and dingy corner, watching with its evil eye,
Is a scary hairy creature guaranteed to horrify.
As I tremble and I whimper every night under the sheet,
Half expecting a most ghastly painful gory end to meet,
In the darkness, it is these words that I splutter: "God, why me?"
For I'm far too young to die yet, as I'm only fifty-three.


Copyright © 2013 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.


JH
Copyright © 2013 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.

JH
Copyright © 2012 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 © 2014 Jonathan Humble

The Fruit Fool

The kumquat sobbed upon the shelf,
A fruit somewhat benighted,

Despite the verse he'd sent his love,
His love was unrequited.
You see the fool was unaware
He'd got much too excited;
His muse turned out to be a plum,
For kumquats are short sighted.

JH
Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

Daydream

A disillusioned fifty-something contemplated life one wet Tuesday while he mopped the kitchen floor,
Then he hung the floral pinny that he'd borrowed from his wife oh so neatly on the hook behind the door.
As he took the lid from off the biro deftly with his teeth, and the nib above the paper hovered close,
In his mind he tried to conjure words that aptly summarised how he felt, avoiding clichés too morose.
"My esteem is sorely compromised; conformity's my all!" wrote this malcontent in ink as green as jade;
Then he left his note beside the tea pot with an added kiss, and walked out the front door horribly afraid.
With his brolly and his mackintosh, he caught the 42, which then whisked him off away and out of town
To a new life full of peril and uncertainty and risk, with his rubric now completely upside down.
As itinerant and hired hand, he hitched across the world, 'til he fell upon hard times in Marrakech,
And while fending off attentions from a bearded chap in red, had a Godly visitation in the flesh:
"Hear me well, you lowly fifty-something; this is not for you, with your mackintosh, your brolly and your angst.
You were meant for pipe and slippers, with a cup of tea in hand, not cavorting in a souk with mountebanks."
So the fifty-something thanked the bearded chap in red he'd met, for his offer of position as a bawd,
And he packed up his belongings with a wistful look around, while his hand was taken firmly by the Lord ...
Then he found himself upon the lino, mop within his fist, in a floral pinny feeling like a twit,
As his wife entered the kitchen, where she looked down to the floor and informed him of the fact he'd missed a bit ...

JH
Copyright © 2014 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 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 © 2013 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