World Tripe Day ... 24th October

Freshly dressed this autumn morning,
Laid upon the butcher's slab,
Honeycomb of pure temptation;
Pound of tripe, you're looking fab ...

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

Loyal To The End ... Of The Sandwich #TripeDog2014

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 © 2014 Jonathan Humble

Here's One I Made Earlier ... #TripeDog2014

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.

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Humble

The Tripe Hound Of Little Ormstonmere #TripeDog2014

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 © 2013 Jonathan Humble

Coffee With John

‘Twas with my head inside a book, at chapter three, page ten,
First paragraph, first sentence at a semi-colon, when
I felt a strong conviction there’s no place I’d rather be
Than sipping coffee with Steinbeck within the library …

Copyright © 2014 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 © 2013 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 © 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.

Copyright © 2014 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 Dance Of The Random Hanky

This universe of quantum doubt, so prone to the bizarre,
Where oddity from time to time affects what one beholds,
Was host to washing on a line, with flapping handkerchief,
Wherein an elemental thought popped up amid the folds.
And speculating from its peg, upon a gaining breeze,
Along with socks and underpants and other laundered gear,
It wondered what the view was like from up amongst the clouds,
When all at once the wind swept it into the atmosphere.
The hanky flew so very high and marvelled at the sight,
Of hilly fields, assorted trees and rivers passing by.
It revelled with a friendly lark, who taught it how to dance,
And joined in with its summer song of love up in the sky.
The other stuff upon the line, quite keen to have some fun,
Strained one and all against their pegs so they might get to go
And fly and jig and swoop and laugh up with their happy friend,
Away from all sobriety hard tethered down below.
This universe of quantum doubt, quite prone to the bizarre,

Where strange event in random dream more properly belongs,
Was host to laundry in the air, cavorting with the birds,
With socks and pants and handkerchief all singing summer songs.

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 ... 

Copyright © 2012 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!

Copyright © 2011 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 © 2010 Jonathan Humble