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 ...

Copyright © 2014 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

Extreme Northern Pastimes

Two aging northern fellows met one Tuesday afternoon
At a quiet coffee house in Pontefract,
And while dunking their biscotti in their macchiato froth,
Both decided that they’d make a sporting pact.
For they wanted to revive pig-hopping as a local game,
One of many northern pastimes full of charm,
Where competitors retracted either foot in headlong race,
With a pig tucked firmly underneath each arm.
But unfortunately, as you know, the price of bacon rose,
As the cost of living went on the rampage,
Making purchases of piggies something one could not afford
If one’s income was below a banker’s wage.
So the aging northern fellows, in pursuit of sporting dreams,
Turned to Plan B in enthusiastic mood,
And they sorted out a set of rules pertaining to a match 
Of wild ferretting at midnight in the nude.

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 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 © 2011 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 © 2013 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 converse 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 © 2013 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

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 circumstance as camels on a yacht;
And so I have a question, asked with due humility,
Within an endless universe, what is the point of me?

Copyright © 2013 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 © 2012 Jonathan Humble


I said goodbye to sanity one Thursday late in June.
I kissed it fondly on the cheek and gave it a balloon.
It soared into the clear blue sky under a gibbous moon.
I shed a melancholic tear and sang a mournful tune.

I parted from reality, after a pipe or two,
And surfed across dimensions on a wave of Irish stew,
The recipe for which was told me by an old gnu,
In transit on a scooter to romantic rendezvous.

The first postcard I sent en route to Lunacy was dear,
I bought it in a Kasbah in a back street in Tangier,
From five performing oysters with a taste for Yorkshire beer,
And all with accents from the county of North Lanarkshire.

They demonstrated how to knit spaghetti whilst asleep;
A skill that’s underrated by the chaps who stick to sheep.
But ‘though I practised, soon I found the learning curve too steep
And sadly was not able to achieve that quantum leap.

In Marrakech, engaged upon a deadly game of chance
With exiled semi-house trained right wing cobblers from France,
I rolled the dice to win and leave the boot merchants askance,
As with a flirty cheese plant in a tango off I danced.

The last postcard was sent just as the cheese plant let me down;
She left me for some big shot from the richer part of town.
And at the time I thought that in self-pity I would drown,
But found salvation hiding underneath an eiderdown.

It’s hard to unicycle with a duvet on your back,
And so I hopped the last bit quoting Proust, Poe and Balzac.
And with my fellow wanderers, met down a cul-de-sac,
Where we were told strife, woe and angst we could quite soon unpack.

The terminal provided for the weary and confused,
Was furnished quite eclectically to calm and keep amused
The screw deficient travellers, who wandered and perused
The waiting room in search of comfy chairs on which to snooze.

My life now is anomalous, with chaos everywhere,
But I've made most uncommon friends, and what we have we share.

I spend my time with Baxter, an eccentric white March hare,
And I am happy here beyond the looking glass somewhere.

... Wish you were here x

Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Humble