I enjoy writing comedy poetry and rhyme. I also have a serious side which emerges from time to time, although it's kept thoroughly in check. Much of my work stems from observations of people and situations. My poetry is mainly satirical,and I am constantly searching for unusual subject matter. I describe myself as 'The Poet In The Corner', that sad little being who commits human failings to rhyme with all the cynicism that they don't really merit.I have four comedy poetry books available at www.lulu.com, and quite an avid following on 'Poetry Corner', at the same site. You can find my web pages at www.stevethepoet.jimdo.com or www.merseysidepoet.talkspot.com . I have had one poem published in an anthology by the Forward Press. I believe the title of the book was 'Passing Through', although it was some time ago. Two of my poems will be included in the 'National Year of Reading' Performance Poetry evening at Formby Library. These will be performed by the Formby Youth Theatre. My goal as a writer is nothing more or less than to spread a little laughter. I find comedy poetry a great release after spending 25 years in the Merseyside Courts Service. These days I like to reflect upon such lack lustre times, and wish that I'd got a proper job.
THE CABBAGE PATCH MEN There’s a bare stretch of land down the end of our street It’s a place unemployed and retired folk meet Where we hang about idly and talk about nature We really don’t care if you’re early or late your A ‘Town Growers’ member elite You’ve a small bit of land, an ‘allotment’ its name It’s got fence on all sides, and you’re so glad you came If you’re wealthy, you sit in a shed, made of wood If you’re not, an old brolly and box are as good It’s all part of the ‘Town Growers’ game There’s a smell in the air “Is it shit”? You’re not sure But regardless, you keep coming back for some more The posh have green wellies, the jobless have black Some even have tellies, the bad guys smoke crack And the smell is concealed by manure There’s polite conversation to analyze veg There’s three litres of cider concealed in a hedge The men discuss deeply the size of their sprouts And the way to protect them from greenfly or louts Or the weeds and coarse grasses like sedge There’s no toilet in sight should you feel like a pee So you simply discharge it were no-one can see Indecent exposure could cause a mishap Up to three years in jail should you bend for a crap But organic and chemical free “My plums are gigantic”, says John, unemployed “And I know my cucumber is often enjoyed” “Look at me pumpkin, I grew it from seed This beauty’s from Europe, a bloody great swede But me marrow dried up, I’m annoyed Kevin is proud of his long thick courgette And brags of the item he grew for a bet He says “it tastes great when it turns darkish green” It grows very quick and you know where it’s been And my girlfriend is proud “Aren’t you pet” There’s a serious edge to the cabbage debate And some blows are exchanged on ‘The use of phosphate’ Dirty Danny peers out from the back of his shed Has a girl to deflower on his spring onion bed And it’s only their very first date “I don’t rush me greens, they are not grown in haste” Says a proud small patch holder “All eaten – no waste” There’s nothing as white as me organic cauli I grew it in shit from a farm horse called ‘Dolly’ But it does leave a slight aftertaste As darkness descends at the ‘Town Growers’ club And the heroes depart with their organic grub Wives have bought veg either frozen or tinned And the ‘Town Growers’ produce ends up being binned So the growers depart to the pub SCHIZOFREDERICK Schizofrederick is my name, yes, I’m sure, that’s me A forward thinking business man with wit and repartee Yet when I think of business things A vacuum in my brain begins Of all the stuff that business brings I’ve lost that certainty Schizofrederick is my name; I’m pretty sure that’s me I work in women’s party plan, have women round to tea Yet when I think of ladies clothes Of tights and bras and panty hose Their interest wanes, but mine just grows Not me perhaps, we’ll see Schizofrederick is my name; I think that might be me A London black cab driver, I work from six till three Yet never did I learn to drive When punters call, I don’t arrive A single fare, I can’t contrive This makes no sense to me Schizofrederick is my name; I hope that you’ll agree A U.S. Surgeon general, renowned in surgery I’ve healed the sick in several lands Yet grime and filth defile my hands They’re not the sort for hearts or glands Besides, I’ve no degree Is Schizofrederick my real name ?, I know I’m forty three Born in 1864 of English royalty I work part time in local banks Fitting guns to wartime tanks All this and more with little thanks Confused? , Perplexed? Not me Schizofrederick? , No, that name means nothing much to me My name is Isaac Newton, I discovered gravity An apple fell down on my head And put my thinking cap to bed My powers of reason all but dead I’m Schizo Fred…….Who’s he? PRE-WAR WAGE-ITIS Haggerty Dolan, his youth it was stolen He lived in a capsule of time When pennies had worth and his wallet was swollen He thought you could live on a dime Haggerty Dolan had ‘pre war’ wage-itis He thought a weeks wage was a pound Bemoaned by his friends that there’s s no one as tight as Young Dolan when he buys a round Haggerty Dolan would stride to the bar Six pints landlord, now, at the double Peanuts, and crisps, and will you have a jar? Here’s sixpence my man, for your trouble For Pre War Wage-itis no cure has been found Its victims must battle alone In five years, their charity managed a pound Through campaigns and a government loan Haggerty Dolan has not had a job For almost the whole of his life Refuses good wages, demands thirty bob For himself, his two kids, and a wife Haggerty shops in a time warp of gloom He can’t afford much at the stores “I’ve one pound and four pence to furnish my room New carpets, a cupboard, two doors He constantly tried to increase his price range Sometimes he would rather be dead As he argued at shops, that he wanted some change From his one shilling coin, for a shed He shunned public transport, preferring to walk Or that’s what he told to the many The truth of the matter, as gossips will talk Is “You can’t ride the bus for a penny” Haggerty’s pre-war wage-itis was rife He struggled on, living in huts Despite shrewd investment, for most of his life Had enough for a bag of dried nuts On Haggerty’s death they arrived for the bash And inspected the will that he wrote To my relatives, I leave a large sum of cash It’s a crisp unused ten shilling note MR INSIGNIFICANT Footprints on the sand, heading out to sea Passed through rock pools, left on rocks Show no speed and yet they hurry Show no feeling, yet they worry That time won’t wait Footprints on the sand, conform to any size Age, no barrier to the thrill Of those who seek contentment in retreat To where the sky and ocean limits meet At Lands End gate Footprints on the sand, the maker heading back Time and tide are in command Of he, who’d linger if he could At where he’d moments earlier stood Alas too late Footprints on the sand, a sign of being there Have perished without trace But that they once were there, is relevant To all but Mr Insignificant Who won’t debate
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Night Terror (22/02/2012)
He Aint Heavy He's My Mother (20/02/2012)
Selling Poetry (A Practical Guide) (20/02/2012)
Newbie Poet (been around the block a few times) (19/02/2012)
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