On Saturday morning, I’ll be in the queue
filled with anticipation – some nervousness too.
With popcorn to munch on while watching the ads
and hoping and praying it won’t be too bad…
For Star Wars was special, it still reigns supreme
of all childhood memories of cinema screen.
But then Phantom Menace proved true to its name –
the other two prequels were more of the same.
Opening crawls about boring taxation
were only the start of the fans’ indignation.
“No more Jar Jar Binks!” you could hear them all cry –
the whole thing was ruined by bad CGI.
So this time around, I’m not asking a lot –
don’t need dazzling dialogue, intricate plot.
Just spaceships and battles – then, if we’re lucky,
a cameo from our favourite Wookiee!
Should be a safe bet that lightsabers abound –
oh, I’ll sit through a lot for that fabulous sound!
Though I guess its too much to hope that it’s packed
with actors that actually know how to act.
Now, please don’t call me Scrooge –
I know, I’m a ranter –
but I’m taking a stand
against Secret Santa.
I’ve enough plastic tat!
Like the novelty clock,
and a magic 8 ball,
and that comedy cock…
It’s stuff nobody needs,
so I fear it all will
go to charity shops –
or end up as landfill.
Choosing gifts is a chore;
your choices diminish
when the office decides
a fiver’s the limit.
I’d rather go shopping
for gifts which feel just right
for friends – not for strangers
with taste quite unlike mine.
I don’t need a repeat
of the colleague who cried
when I bought him a book
on bunny suicide…
No more Secret Santa!
It will be a relief –
it’s no better to give
than it is to receive.
So you’d like to ask for a favour?
I’m sorry – you don’t stand a chance.
You should have asked me yesterday –
I was wearing my positive pants.
But I change my pants each morning
(’cause my dear old mum told me so) –
now I’m wearing my negative knickers
and my negative knickers say “No!”
I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed.
I really don’t mean to be rude.
Just blame those negative knickers
with their selfish and bad attitude.
I honestly want to help you,
I usually try to be kind –
but I’ve got my negative knickers on,
and the knickers don’t feel so inclined.
Those knickers are terribly naughty –
the things have a mind of their own!
Oh, I can’t take them anywhere,
and I simply daren’t leave them alone.
But soon they’ll be in the laundry,
enjoying a delicate wash –
so just ask me again in the morning
when my negative knickers come off!
“I never drink wine”
it’s whisky – see, the stag on the label?”
Renfield, taking orders as always,
ferries drinks from bar to table.
There’s a heap of capes on the counter.
On a stool, there’s Jack Palance – who,
for a creature that lives on blood (and beer),
is looking quite substantial.
George Hamilton is swaying
and giggling at Bela Lugosi
who’s trying to do his party piece
with a pint glass, matchbox and coaster.
But Frank Langella’s disappeared –
ah, those lips, those eyes
were enough to snare the barmaid –
no phony fangs required.
Klaus Kinski’s in a corner
where small cries can be heard.
They may be his – but no-one’s keen
to ask if his drink is dead.
So Renfield orders another round
and longs for eternal life.
Says the barman “Is that with Kahlua?”
and pours him one, over ice.
Oh bother – it’s Poetry Day,
and here’s me with nothing to say.
I wish I could rhyme
but there’s simply no time –
not this week, anyway.
I’ve not had a moment to think –
the washing machine’s on the blink.
I’ve got loads on my plate –
life won’t co-operate –
and the dishes are still in the sink.
I’m sure I’ve appointments to make
with the bank – and with friends – and that cake!
Oh, I’ve promised too much,
like the chocolate fudge
that I’m not even sure how to bake…
If I just had more hours in the day
surely everything would be OK.
Oh, come back next year –
maybe you’ll see it here,
the poem that (this time) slipped away.
Each month we arrive for our regular date;
there’s wine in a bottle and crisps on a plate,
but we can’t begin yet because somebody’s late –
let’s have wine, and then start on the book.
There’s discussion of husbands and children and lives
(slightly confusing for those who aren’t wives)
and gossip about those who haven’t arrived,
before we can get to the book.
Now another whole bottle of wine is gone,
so our hostess puts the kettle on –
‘Anyone fancy a strawberry scone?’ –
and we still haven’t got to the book.
One hasn’t finished – don’t tell her the end!
One thinks it’s the best book that ever was penned.
One hates it – she’s passing hers on to a friend –
but at least we’re discussing the book.
Now the wine is all gone, there’s no food left to eat,
so a date is arranged for the next time to meet,
and we make our goodbyes as we sway down the street –
maybe next time we’ll finish the book!
Why dream of a kitchen like those on TV?
(Gemstones on a work top? Give me jewellery!)
In my dreams, a kitchen is not about looks –
but filled with food memories from childhood books,
where Alice ate cake hoping she would get big,
while a cat watched a duchess pepper a pig,
where Narnian badgers baked marmalade rolls
and a much-loved bear had a small smackerel –
and a hobbit found himself hosting some dwarves
who ate all his food and then juggled his forks.
But, my ultimate kitchen fantasy?
A kitchen where somebody else cooks for me!
This lion once lay by Britannia’s side –
on a ten pence I wore the crown with pride.
But now that’s the only place I’m complete;
on the two pence – I’ve got no feet.
The twenty pence is even worse –
all you can see of me is my arse!
On the five I’m just a head and a tail –
the whole design is an epic fail.
(A coin without a number in sight?
Even the euro could get that right.)
Oh, sometimes you’ll see me, rampant, alone
or with the unicorn, guarding the throne,
and (rarely) a trio of lions, couchant –
but most days a dragon is easier to spot.
Across the currency we’re scattered;
Britannia’s lions, her pride, in tatters.
Using public transport
is more often trial than joy,
but today behind me on the bus
I heard a little boy
sitting on his mother’s lap,
face against the glass,
calling names of vehicles
whenever they went past.
Cars, he didn’t bother with;
he wanted things like “truck”
“ambulance” and “caravan”
or “double-decker bus”.
Then we stopped by a building site –
his poor brain overloaded.
So many names burst out of him,
I thought that he’d exploded.
“Forklift truck!” he screamed with glee.
“Lorry – cement mixer!
Caterpillar truck! A crane!
Van! Bulldozer! Digger!”
It made the whole bus smile.
And me? I wished I shared his luck –
to have a child’s uncomplicated life,
the joy of trucks.
I know a girl who’s bored to tears with temping –
finding something more exciting is her goal.
Admin simply isn’t sexy!
Sad, but true – she finds this vexing,
and so she’s looking for another role.
She thought she’d try to be a trolley dolly,
serving meals and duty free aboard a plane –
till she heard if you’re a man, then
you’ll be called a wagon dragon
(which is, you must admit, a cooler name.)
She next thought she could be a llama farmer,
for the job title alone would raise a smile.
Then she met some – it’s a fact that
she’d be happier with alpaca –
they’re calmer than a llama, by a mile!
So then she thought she’d like to be a fluffer,
pulling bits of fluff from tracks for subway trains –
but she found that also to be
work off-screen in adult movies
(‘preparing’ actors – no, I won’t explain!)
But, though she finds herself still trapped in admin,
now the company’s been brainstorming job names –
and they’re calling her position
‘workplace processes technician’.
Sounds better – though the pay remains the same!