Beware the Ideas of March

I’ve been meaning to write this poem for most of this month, well, since World Poetry Day. It was sparked by the silly pun of the title and that’s about it, excusewise! As our school reports used to say, “Must try harder”.

Beware the Ideas of March

Beware the Ideas of March, my friend,

or you may meet an unpleasant end.

At your peril ignore this warning

and you may not be here next morning.

Look what happened to Julius Caesar:

a domineering kind of geezer.

He joined a chat room, crossed a forum

and used a phrase he thought would floor ’em

assiduous in his civic duty.

Surprise! Surprise! then, “Et tu Brute!”

March strides right in, roars “leo-nigh on”         

Like Gogglebox or wall with fly on,

look on gobsmacked, sip wee soothing dram

and out March goes like a cuddly lamb.

St. Patrick’s Day Ditty

I rushed to write this yesterday to read at the Dog and Partridge bollyfolk night on the day itself, but, alas (?), the Man Utd/Liverpool FA Cup quarter final took longer than expected to reach its thrilling conclusion, so I’ve 2 weeks to smooth out the wrinkles.

St. Patrick’s Day Ditty

Here I sit hoping that words will come quick,

so you don’t have to hear yet another lim’rick.

Why didn’t I start when today was tomorrow

and write at my leisure, by Guiney, begorrah? 

Still let us ponder and tarry a while

and share precious thoughts of the Emerald Isle

where Guiness waves lap and quiet flows the Liffey.

We’ll drink in the craic and be there in a jiffy.           

To Ulster’s 6 counties and far Londonderry,

we’ll hitch a short ride on an Irish Sea ferry.

We’ll mull over blackberries with Seamus Heaney

and the bean rows awaiting in Yeats’ Innisfree.

The Blarney stone’s favours I steal with a kiss.

I’m beyond the Pale, but I’ll tell you all this.

A tinker’s cuss is the kind I don’t give.

This is the place where I wish I could live.

I’m near moved to tears. How I wish I’d been born

in the land of the shamrock and the leprechaun

and shared my time there with my sweetheart, Mady

and the luck of the Irish with patron Saint Paddy.

Airport Elf and Safety

A bit of nonsense conjured up from a prompt in Charlie Heathcote’s Macclesfield Creative Writing Group workshop last Thursday. I’m running one on March 7th. (2 till 4 pm.

Airport Elf and Safety

Our flight out was due to leave Ringway

and we formed an orderly queue.

The destination was just beyond Norway,

somewhere north Arctic Circle it’s true.

In front was a diminutive person

with long pointy ears peeking out.

Next to him, a lady (was he her son?)

glanced at him as if in some doubt.

She was wearing a white fur trimmed, red coat.

They engaged in joking and banter.

To my surprise – and this stuck in my throat –

it seemed that this woman was Santa!

No need for me to fret about Santa’s gender

‘cos the “elf” doft his hat and called her “our Brenda”.

Written in Charlie Heathcote’s workshop from the prompt:

an elf standing in line at an airport puts on the wrong hat.

Paranormal Nonsense

The piece below was written in Patrick Prinsloo’s Macclesfield Creative Writing Group’s workshop in which we were given a fairly comprehensive list of spooky things as a prompt. I’m still rather regretting not working in ‘and black magic shocks or should that read “chocs’. Try to bear with me over the deformation of English pronunciation in line 13 for the sake of rhyme!

It’s a busy time coming up (not forgetting St. Valentine’s Day on 14th. February):

‘Poets and Pints’ open mike at the Button Warehouse on Wednesday 7th. February, KO 7.30; and Mark Rawlins’ ‘Poetry Pandemonium’ open mike at Mash Guru on Thursday, 15th. February, KO 8.30 with Joy Winkler and me as guest poets. Come along and enjoy if you’re within striking distance of Macclesfield.

Paranormal Nonsense

Voodoo may be fine, but I draw the line

at a word like transmogrification.

I feel that a séance should be in abeyance

or I’ll rise up and do levitation.

Crystal ball-like clairvoyance is one more annoyance.

I say, “No” to a Ouija board outing.

“Death to necromancy”. It’s way out too fancy,

whilst astrology fills me with doubting.

 I ask myself why I don’t fear Evil Eye,

though the consequence might just be tragic.

I’m nearing an ending with Geller’s spoon bending

which he achieved with black or white magic.

What of poltergeist? I’m an avowed atheist,

though I have seen a film called “Ghostbusters”.

My exit is formal. The word “paranormal”

conjures up the last stand of Custer’s.

Burns’ Night Rhyme

Tomorrow across Scotland and round the world there will be celebrations to mark the birth of Scotland’s National poet, Robert Burns, born in 1759. I’ve partially updated a previous Burns’ Night poem to include some recent events on which he would certainly have made his views known. Here’s to the great man.

Burns’ Night Rhyme                                    

2024! An opening door?

Another Burns’ night’s round again.

Our Rabbie (5 starred), the Immortal Bard,

is toasted tonight, do ye ken?

Ploughman Poet from Ayr, his natural flair

for the feelings of his fellow Man

touched our hearts to the core, now and evermore

till mankind becomes one big clan

And what would he think as we live on the brink

in a world gone frankly quite mad.

He’d pick up his pen as he did way back then

and coin sound advice in verse clad.

Take our EU Brexit which clearly wrecked it,

appalled, he would say, “Man, you’re fou.

It must be better to borders unfetter

and bring Man togither, the noo.

I canna believe it’s too late to retrieve it.

Test the water with referenda,

but tie selves in knots? Nae, be like canny Scots

and adopt a long term agenda.

And just one more thang ere “Auld Lang Syne” ye sang,

the world’s now a place run by loons.

We’re for the high jump with Donald J Trump,

compromise displaced by High Noons.

No Gary Cooper, he’s more party pooper.

He’ll throw all his toys from the pram.

We’ll be left in the dark and no Cutty Sark

and no Meg to ride off on like Tam.

Post-Hamas slaughter, Netanyahu, “No quarter!”

The world must demand a ceasefire. 

Gaza’s innocent throng have suffered too long

as death toll goes higher and higher.

It masks the Ukraine, allows Putin to rain

his drone bombs down with impunity.

Attention span gone, of news we have none.

We cannot concede him immunity.

Grant us and gi’us to see as others see us

in our time on this Earth which is brief,

to love one another, treat all as a brother

in one universal belief.”

PS Here’s an addendum, my verses to end’em:

King Charles the Third is now reigning.

For me there’s no change. It may seem quite strange.

I’ll stick to my EU remaining.

New Year’s Lament

A belated “Happy New Year” to everyone. I’ve somehow managed to let 2024 drift on for 10 days already, so here (if you need it in addition to Jules’ Holland’s “Hootenany”) is a way to know instantly when a new year has arrived. Just visit your local supermarket. Best wishes for a better year for the planet than 2023.

New Year’s Lament                                            

Ring out the Old. Ring in the New.

It’s New Year’s Day and time to queue.

It’s time to leave mince pies unsold.

Ring in the New. Ring out the Old,

marked not with fireworks nor with guns.

but Jan. 1st., store-baked, hot cross buns.

Hot cross buns,
Hot cross buns,
January,
February,
Hot cross buns.

If you have not bought them, now’s the right season. Any Friday is Good Friday, Hot cross buns.

Hot cross buns,
Hot cross buns,
One for 10p,
Second’s freebie,
Hot cross buns.


Everybody likes them.
Place them on your tongues.
Haven’t any?
There are many
Hot cross buns.

Don’t do jokes from crackers
though one sometimes puns?
Pass the sherry.
Let’s get merry.
Hot cross buns.

Get them before Easter. Eat them by the ton. Take a Rennie®. Spend a penny. Hot cross buns.

Bravve(rman) New World

The first couple of lines of this poem emerged in the early hours a day or so ago, though the title after the rest revealed itself. I couldn’t make up my mind which of the alternatives to use for the last line of this supersized sonnet (3 x 5 +2 as oppsosed to 3 x 4 +2).

In case I don’t post anything else between now and the end of the year, I’d like to send everyone our ‘Seasons Greetings and Best Wishes for 2024’, albeit a little prematurely.

Bravve(rman) New World

In a shop doorway lies one life style choice,

a sleeping-bagged mute, a thin cat with no voice.

He’s opted to opt out, to dodge work and skive,

live hand to mouth. He’ll see dawn’s glow arrive –

if he gets through the night still half-alive.

A few coins in his mug, his dog at his feet,

they huddle together to share body heat.

A card scrawl: ‘Please help me. Don’t just pass by’

He shrugs a faint hope that we won’t let him die

and leave him all washed up and hung out to dry.

Shop windows sparkle with tinsel and glitter.

Christmas lights flash above this human litter.

Think twice as you pass by. Do give a damn.

Spare change in your pocket? Give what you can.

Remember the tale of the Samaritan.

Don’t judge him. Who knows what hardship’s he’s borne,

what blows Fate has dealt him and left him forlorn or

what blows Fate has dealt him to leave him careworn.

Photo of Autumn: A Sonnet

This started as a writing burst in Rosanna McGlone’s Zoom session a couple of weeks ago before we looked at ‘To Autumn’ by John Keats and ‘My Autumn Leaves’ by Bruce Weigl (an ambiguous title by a Vietnam war veteran). One suggestion was that we also include references to the senses.

Photo of Autumn: A Sonnet                                              

It looks like Redesmere peeking through the trees,

resounds with quacking ducks, no buzzing bees,

the leaves, a fragile, golden curtain hung

until by slightest whispering breeze unclung.

Down, down they drop, branches naked, bare,

stark skeletons till spring creeps in unaware,

tiptoeing in a lifetime still away,

sneaking green back in with lengthening day.

We’ll stuff our mouths with turkey in the interim,

Our hearing block with carols through the grim

dark days ahead. Our sense of smell:

the cinnamon spiced, mulled wine will cast its spell.

The clock will finally restore an hour

and spring leapfrog winter with an April shower.

60 Years Ago Today

It’s difficult to convey the impact that learning of JFK’s assassination on Friday, 22nd. November, 1963 in Dallas, Texas had on those of us around at the time. It was a 9/11 moment for the baby boomer generation. I was hitch hiking (for the first time) from university in London back home to Farnsfield and then caught a bus from Newark on which my Aunt Margaret happened to be the conductress. I remember going into a house (hers?) and seeing the then Foreign Secretary, George Brown, being interviewed on TV. I think Private Eye would say that he appeared ‘tired and emotional’. Like the rest of us he had not been preparing for such an event, but his position in the government required him to give a semi-official reaction. The subsequent killing of Lee Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby who, I think, at a later date ‘died’ in prison all added to the multitude of conspiracy theories that are still a subject for debate to this very day. I felt I should write a 60th. anniversary tribute (below), though it’s rough around the edges and does little justice to the enormity of the aftershocks which rippled round the world.

60 Years Ago Today

Way back in time in the US of A,

60 years ago to the very day,

in Dallas a shot or shots rang out,

echoed round the world, put all in doubt.

So shocked that we remember where we were,

a hard wired memory that we all share.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy, JFK,

known as ‘Jack’, charismatic, but feet of clay.

35th president at 44,

debated Richard Nixon off the floor.

Abroad adored, but at home much less so,

behind the scenes so many things we didn’t know.

The Cuban missile crisis gave us quite a scare.

Brinksmanship with Krushchev, would lead to World War flare?

This was all forgotten when JFK was shot,

his foibles and his dalliances (‘Some Like It Hot’).

Who marked his card? Who made America sob?

Well, brother Bobby was investigating the mob.

Jack’s friendship with Sinatra didn’t save his life

and in that shot (or shots?) Jackie was a widow not a wife.

Conspiracy theories to this day abound.

How many shots were fired from Book Depo’ or ground?

Jack Ruby silenced Oswald – was he lone assassin?

LBJ took over. He was the only one to win.

‘Where were you?’ I hear you ask.

I need a final rhyme.

Hitch hiking home from uni’ for the very first time.

60 Years Ago Today

It’s difficult to convey the impact that learning of JFK’s assassination on Friday, 22nd. November, 1963 in Dallas, Texas had on those of us around at the time. It was a 9/11 moment for the baby boomer generation. I was hitch hiking (for the first time) from university in London back home to Farnsfield and then caught a bus from Newark on which my Aunt Margaret happened to be the conductress. I remember going into a house (hers?) and seeing the then Foreign Secretary, George Brown, being interviewed on TV. I think Private Eye would say that he appeared ‘tired and emotional’. Like the rest of us he had not been preparing for such an event, but his position in the government required him to give a semi-official reaction. The subsequent killing of Lee Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby who, I think, at a later date ‘died’ in prison all added to the multitude of conspiracy theories that are still a subject for debate to this very day. I felt I should write a 60th. anniversary tribute (below), though it’s rough around the edges and does little justice to the enormity of the aftershocks which rippled round the world.

60 Years Ago Today

Way back in time in the US of A,

60 years ago to the very day,

in Dallas a shot or shots rang out,

echoed round the world, put all in doubt.

So shocked that we remember where we were,

a hard wired memory that we all share.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy, JFK,

known as ‘Jack’, charismatic, but feet of clay.

35th president at 44,

debated Richard Nixon off the floor.

Abroad adored, but at home much less so,

behind the scenes so many things we didn’t know.

The Cuban missile crisis gave us quite a scare.

Brinksmanship with Krushchev, would lead to World War flare?

This was all forgotten when JFK was shot,

his foibles and his dalliances (‘Some Like It Hot’).

Who marked his card? Who made America sob?

Well, brother Bobby was investigating the mob.

Jack’s friendship with Sinatra didn’t save his life

and in that shot (or shots?) Jackie was a widow not a wife.

Conspiracy theories to this day abound.

How many shots were fired from Book Depo’ or ground?

Jack Ruby silenced Oswald – was he lone assassin?

LBJ took over. He was the only one to win.

‘Where were you?’ I hear you ask.

I need a final rhyme.

Hitch hiking home from uni’ for the very first time.