/ Community, Travel & Leisure

Step into The Rhyming Room

Poetry on typewriter

Would you prefer to write your comments as a poem? Then The Rhyming Room is exactly where you want to be. Take inspiration from our weekly themes or wax lyrical on current consumer concerns…

The Which? Conversation community is fortunate to have many budding poets in its midst who frequently put their thoughts into verse.

On the odd occasion, we’ve even had dedicated conversations encouraging you to show off your creative talents and command of couplets and stanzas, such as those community member Ian led on National Poetry Day last year and at Christmas.

Poets’ corner

Concerned that some of the odes may get buried and forgotten in the depths of Which? Conversation, a number of you have requested a permanent poetry convo.

The space you envisaged was somewhere to store your topical verses so you could easily access them for further enjoyment – and even contribute more when you’re feeling inspired.

So, without further ado: welcome to The Rhyming Room.

On song

Of course, the main idea here is to write poems about your thoughts on current consumer issues.

But for added inspiration, each week, we’ll also be suggesting themes. These could be based on a mixture of world, international and national days, and even dubious celebratory days – so be sure to check back regularly.

Naturally, if you come up with your own celebratory occasion and want to write a poem, that’s OK, too.

Your musings can also be serious or amusing.

The only rules are that the poems must be your own work and it would be helpful to others to mention the subject. You should also always keep our Community Guidelines in mind.

To kick things off, Alfa’s kindly put pen to paper.

Did you ever dream of being a poet
But never quite sure just how to show it?
Let thoughts in your head turn to words that flow
And watch a poem start to grow

Each week there will be a new set of themes
Inspiration may come to you in your dreams
The end of lines don’t have to rhyme
Just come back and share with us in due time

This week’s themes:

Any current issues on Which? Conversation, plus:

Notable upcoming dates:

Fri 26 May: Don’t Fry Day, Dracula Day, Paper Airplane Day, Heat Awareness Day
Sat 27 May: Cellophane Tape Day, Sun Screen Day,
Sun 28 May: Brisket Day, Amnesty International Day, Hamburger Day, World Hunger Day
Mon 29 May: Biscuit Day, Paper Clip Day, Learn About Composting Day, Coq Au Vin Day
Tue 30 May: Water a Flower Day, Loomis Day, My Bucket’s Got A Hole Day
Wed 31 May: No Tobacco Day, Macaroon Day, Senior Health & Fitness Day, Speak in Sentences Day
Thu 1 Jun: Say Something Nice Day, Go Barefoot Day, Olive Day, Heimlich Manoeuvre Day, Penpal Day
Fri 2 Jun: Doughnut Day, Rocky Road Day, Leave The Office Early Day,
Sat 3 Jun: Repeat Day, Insect Repellent Awareness Day, Egg Day
Sun 4 Jun: Hug Your Cat Day, Tailors Day, Old Maid’s Day, Cancer Survivors Day, Cheese Day, Cognac Day

Please check back regularly for themes of the week.

We look forward to reading your compositions!

With special thanks to Which? Conversation community member, Alfa, who assisted with this conversation and came up with the inspired name of The Rhyming Room.

Comments

Appro-pros the current difficulty on Which? Conversation and those struggling to rectify it.

When Our Electronic World Fails.
The fragility of the microchip
Is seen when things go wrong
It’s when logic starts to slip
Our computers go off song.

The computer has its structure plan
Components joined and wired.
These interactions made by man
Now work by pulses fired.

When running well and up to task
These circuits make work lightning fast.
Instructions that we humans ask
Are actioned ere a second’s past.

Thus we use our techno skills
To make things hard be easy.
To interact, buy, pay the bills,
And chat, all bright and breezy.

Then one day a microdot,
A connecting strip or chip,
Finds it’s getting rather hot
And makes a circuit blip.

This in turn makes changes to
The way the messages run.
A new instruction list to do
And chaos just begun.

As if this were not bad enough
Our loyal servant on the table
Obeys who ever inputs stuff.
Hackers can disable.

Computers seem to cause us strife
When software makes the rules.
For now there is no easy life
When every process fools.

Good luck to all who circuits search
To find where things malfunction.
Sorrow to those left in lurch,
No help and no injunction.

Where then is our back up plan?
Where our pen and paper?
Or complex world is down the pan
When micro-circuits caper.

OUR complex world is down the pan
When micro-circuits caper.

Sorry.

The Morning After.

There was a party late last night.
The marquee was full inside and tight.
Drinks flowed and the party food
Added to the festive mood.

Music played in to the night,
Some were dancing, some not quite.
Gradually the throng departed,
Leaving just the late, stout hearted.

Now the dawn has come and gone.
The tenting doors flap in upon
The empty space where merry crowd
Partied late and partied loud.

There is a sadness to behold
An empty marquee in the cold.
Its purpose now a purpose past
Just standing lifeless, white and vast.

Above, the blue flags on their stays
Blow and flutter, catch the gaze.
Their welcome now a useless ploy
In cold grey sky where none enjoy.

Inside the cavern, now in silent state,
Sides suck and blow as winds dictate.
The stains of drink and food remain
And cans and bottles, dregs retain.

The tables round the window sides.
White plastic chairs where no one bides.
The coloured bunting draped and spread
And pretty lanterns overhead.

The empty stage with mike and amps,
The set of flashing, lifeless lamps.
The bar with crates, just boxes now
And glasses stacked, no drinks allow.

The party smell that lingers still
The cold and dampness of the chill.
The ghosts of all the many who
Danced and revelled, courted too.

Soon the grass will grow once more
Canvas, poles and wooden floor
Banished from this place outdoor.
Just a memory left to explore.

Something Missing.

When Shaw wrote his Pygmalion play,
It ended in an ambiguous way.
Did she marry the doting Fred,
Or return to her Wimpole Street bed?

Shaw equivocates purposely
And all who act it must agree
Which ending makes the better plot
Which man is the greater clot.

When the curtain falls at last
All the action is then past.
But what if someone by a deed
Changes all that might succeed?

Indeed this happened to a play,
Comedy was meant to sway
The final act from tragic gloom
As lovers met across a room.

Sadly for the first night crowd,
The curtain fell, a crimson shroud,
Before the lovers final kiss,
So they believed alas, amiss…

That never would the lovers meet
For ever parted in defeat.
Thus tragedy from a hasty curtain
Made their doom for ever certain.

Such a small and simple act
Could, in life make us react.
Something missed or left unsaid
Something sent and left unread.

We must care when curtain’s drawn
All our actions clear are bourn,
Everything said and clear on page,
Ere we bow and leave the stage.

Being forced on to the Bank Holiday roads to play at a carnival and being stuck in the inevitable queue, this began to take shape as different cars tried to be clever and gain a few yards. I have seen all these things on my journeys, though not this one.
Slow At Seventy.

The busy road is just a turn
The third on roundabout I learn.
The start of journey stage to come
With many miles there in sum
Before its time to turn away
As early dawn has turned to day.

I take the turn and as I do,
Two bikes appear out of the blue.
They twist their throttles hard around
And howl in rage, a mournful sound.
This wail as tortured engines sear
Fades and lowers as gear climbs gear.

They’re gone and with their speeding scream.
No thought of safety, life a dream.
The roads are queueing far ahead
Will they see before they’re dead?

My steady pace is also slow
For those who always think they know
That laws and limits don’t apply
To roads where cameras seldom lie.
They sail past in high distain
And only slow when police detain.

These speeders come in many guises
The little ones who cause surprises,
Hammering their compact shells
Foot hard down in their tiny hells.
No margin for a fault or flat
No thought for anything quite like that.

The limousines and the four by fours
Flashing past with their darkened doors.
Heedless of the speed they reach
Careless of the laws they breach.
High in their heavens they care for none
The law’s an ass, they’re having fun.

Some just have a car that’s fast
And as it’s quick they hurtle past.
No restraint, they’ve paid for speed
So speed is what they seek and need.
Flashy paint and tail pipes -four
Says, ”Look at me and hear the roar.”

White van man, his reputation,
As the hooligan of the nation.
Rattles past in reckless haste
His poor engine over raced.
Cares he not, for he just drives
Others see his van survives.

Family hacks are at it too
Sailing past with wife and crew.
Chatting merrily as they waft
Ignoring dashboard dials daft.
Flitting thus from lane to lane
Or in the middle and there remain.

As I wend my lawful track
I glance at cars the people hack.
Rear car windows fascinate
Shapes to like and those to hate.
Curved and ugly, squat and sour
Tiny bevels, those that glower.

Tail lights, flamboyant types.
Frontal lights with stupid stripes
Exhausts all squashed and shaped within
Funny rears all sharp and thin.
Look at Me’s all badged and chrome
Humble hacks from a second home.

Then the names and letters loose,
Each a boast or bright excuse
For lesser models, so to hide
The basic trim and bare inside.
TD this and iX that,
Kadjar Polo, Ford, Fiat.

Some who rush along the track
Have messages displayed in back.
“Baby on board” or “Jesus Saves,”
Jesus wouldn’t drive like slaves
Rowing fearful of the whip
His would be a gentle ship.

And so the turning comes at last,
The merry band come roaring past.
I turn to tranquil ways where hedge
Borders road and green side edge.
Here a slow and solitary car
Bumbles slowly, the road to bar.

Brakes at every corner slight
Thinks he’s driving on the right,
Curves and traffic seem to come
When I might pass this driver rum.
So I sigh and bide my time
Speeding is a heinous crime!

The Curiosity Of Number.

It takes one to know one
It takes two to pair.
Three has the pair undone
But four can take a share.

Five gives a casting vote
Six might make three pairs
Seven septet players note
As eight climb bell tower stairs.

Nine are in a Morris Dance
Ten dance hand in hand.
Eleven players take their chance
Twelve a juror’s band.

Seven days in a week,
Ten commandments Christians seek.
Eight to row a boat in race
Two opinions in a case.

Four for Bridge sit at a table,
Solitaire just one is able.
Fifteen for a Rugby Team
And three the traffic lights to gleam.

Sixty minute hours hale,
Twelve the half notes in a scale.
One the head and point of nail.
Two the chance of being male.

Numbers, numbers everywhere,
Measures, standards, values share.
Two eyes and ears and arms and legs
Two for one the bargain begs.

When we write and while we speak,
Numbers just play hide and seek.
“Second left and then first right
Number ten is by the light.”

We quantify and estimate
We count and keep the score.
Numbers make us prompt or late
They’re in our very core.

Yet like letters on the page
Numbers print in ink.
We see their form and thus engage
They govern what we think.

Radio four tells me it is International Poetry Day today, so I began to write an international poem but it crept closer to home.

A Very British Elegy.

In the beginning.
At the very start,
There was foment,
And that foment had two sides.

The popular side saw.
The popular press said.
The populous thought –
-Their thoughts.

Here were images
Of external control.
Of straightened bananas
And stupid sausages.

Here were images
Of external control.
Of Stupid laws
From stupid foreigners.

Here were images
Of those who couldn’t,
From their far off gatherings,
Understand.

Here were images
Of our ancient artisans-
-Millennially moulded,
Traditionally British

Here were images
Of a culture strong,
Infected, infiltrated,
Imposed upon.

The popular side saw.
The popular press said.
“We are over-run
Our jobs are gone.”

The popular side saw.
The popular press said.
“Where are our dwellings?
Where our jobs?”

The popular side saw.
The popular press asked.
“Where is our culture?
Where our communities?”

In the beginning
The foment stirred.
In the beginning,
Nothing heard,

In the beginning,
There was unrest.
Foreign laws arrived
To impose upon our own.

The broadsheet readers saw.
The broadsheet press said.
“Our membership’s expensive.
Their control is quite extensive.”

After the beginning
There came a Cameron.
And he saw the foment
And he saw that it was bad.

And the Cameron was
Encouraged in his view,
For among his followers,
Feathers flew.

In the beginning,
A story, fabled famous,
Told children of a Genie
Bottled long ago.

In the beginning,
That bottle was well topped.
In the beginning,
All mischief stopped.

The Cameron with his corkscrew,
Withdrew that bottle top
And discontent flowed freely
Out.

Now all the foreign muddle
Could be banished at a stroke.
Freedom from this muddle
Was a ballot paper stroke.

The Genie floated free at last,
Casting side ‘gainst side,
And now as we review the past
Our histories collide.

The Genie with its manic grin
Looks at torture from within.
The weary rage at nothing done.
The angry rage at war begun.

The will of the people touted.
The will of the people doubted.
The will of the people flouted.
Those angry ideas shouted.

In the beginning
At the very start,
There was foment
And that foment had no vote.

At the end,
At the very end,
There is foment.
And that foment has no vote.

Paying A Visit.

I walked into the empty room,
Labelled one might naturally assume
From the purpose on its door
Activities privately performed, for sure.

On a wall, hissing with the flame,
A boiler, from which radiators came
To heat church and rooms that matched.
With pipes to and fro attached.

Beneath a notice typed in red,
Simply wrote and simply read,
“If you smell gas please telephone”
The responsibility yours alone.

My smile broad had now become,
Here the methane might not come
From gas and boiler’s outlet flue,
But from other purposes in this loo!

I thought I’d dust the cobwebs from the room and, since it is getting towards Christmas I’ll put a couple of Christmas poems in here to get in the mood. The first I wrote and set to music – S.A.T.B. Flute, Oboe and string quartet, examines various aspects of Christmas.

A Christmas Consultation.

Christmas comes in many guises,
Festivities cloaked in history’s disguises.
Victorians with their cards and trees,
Continental figures changing by degrees
To red costumes, beards and toys to please.

Food to cook on Christmas day.
And children’s magic; their Santa’s sleigh.
Families round the festive board.
Skyping chats with those abroad.
A season for harmony and accord.

Somewhere distant for many here,
The midnight chimes of churches clear.
Calling us to pray and sing.
For Christmas Christians out they ring,
And faithful, faithful tributes bring.

For beneath the modern outward show,
Where mammon, mirth and commerce grow,
Lies a story like no other,
Of a stable birth in humble cover,
Where Kings and Shepherds are brother.

Where “Christian” came to be a noun,
From Mary’s Child in winding gown.
Where Herod’s evil failed to quell
The birth which Christians all do dwell,
And Gospellers found words to tell.

Christmas, the beginning of the tale,
A birth, an opening of Christ’s travail.
His work and deeds in a captive land;
To those he lent his healing hand.
This carol is a song of praise,
For all who walk his chartered ways.

The second is kind of hologram which materialises, from nothing, into an infant school nativity. Currently there are ten bars of S.A.T.B. and piano to go with it and it should be ready for next Christmas!

A Christmas Montage.

Open your eyes wide,
To see what’s inside.
Open your ears to hear
And this story will appear.

Nothing yet upon the floor,
But wait, here comes some straw,
Scattered thickly on the ground
Lining a manger all around.

Look, the stable walls are there,
Loose boards bolted anywhere.
A roof above which now decays
A door, on rusty hinges, sways.

Animals are standing still,
Humble stalls are theirs to fill.
A bright star shining, shining bright
Shafts its rays and gives us light.

And now the door is pulled aside.
A donkey enters and is tied.
The man moves straw a bed to make,
His wife lies down, her rest to take.

Listen once more and hear his cries,
A baby in the manger lies.
Joseph, Mary, new wed wife,
Mother, father to this sacred life.

The shining star a guiding light
Leads wise men riding through the night.
Shepherds hear from angels, bright,
And journey to this holy site.

And now they gather in this space.
Each to worship in this place.
Gifts of gold, incense and myrrh
Precious icons, signify, concur.

This scene, a cameo now today,
The centre of our infants’ play.
Jesus, Mary, Joseph there,
Wise men, shepherds have their share.

Glory to this holy birth,
Praise to Jesus round the earth.
Ever keep our Christmas new,
Remembering values, always true.

Christmas 2019

Which ever way we voted,
Who ever wished in power,
What ever party toted
When others made us sour,

What ever tipple hits the spot,
What ever festive food,
Who ever visits, who does not
When in the festive mood,

What ever fun and party
What ever Christmas fad
Whether hale and hearty
And music makes us glad,

Whether grouped with those we love
Or living just alone,
Whether there’s angels up above,
A manger made of stone,

Mid-night mass or stockings’ filled
And Santa’s plate to lay,
Films to watch and dancing billed
And children at their play,

Or working shifts and caring,
Essential duties to be done,
Christmas dinners preparing
For those who can’t make one,

What ever Christmas has in store
How ever work or play,
Christmas greetings outward pour
And blessings on this day.

I’m more of a limerick man
I can usually get them to scan
I sometimes strike lucky,
When rhyming gets mucky
By fortunate means, not a plan.

Red Rudolph likes satire and banter,
Which amuses and tickles our Santa.
When out in the sleigh
They joke all the way
Which caused red Rudolph to canter.

But the question of why he is red
Still remains, for a reason unsaid
I suspect that he bled
As he hastily fed
Or the santa coat dye might be lead

I have one more an alternative thought;
He was lovestruck, and Cupid he sought.
But his reins were too tight,
And try as he might.
The cover turned into a snort.

For Rudolph, the nose that is red,
With spirits could sometimes be bred.
Or maybe his hooter
That sat nav and router,
Is red when he needs to be fed.

We know that his red nose has power
To shine through a storm or a shower.
But his nose is a light
That he puts on at night
And charges one carrot an hour.

His secret is ancient, not new,
The back pack is hidden from view,
The Li-ion cells
Are wired to bells
And the red nose just sparks in the dew.

Lovely!

Is Rudolph now getting a complex,
With so many musings that we flex?
Life could be so much worse
As it’s all done in verse
And the nose has a natural convex.

Yes. Rudolph is back in the stable,
Conflating this wonderful fable.
So until the new year,
When he’ll surely appear
We must sing something else at the table.

A silkworm can glow in the park,
An eel can crackle and spark.
Jellyfish glow
And lantern fish show
That many can lighten the dark.

There once was a fellow called Boris
Well up on the writings of Horace.
But as an MP
We’ll just wait and see,
As he Brexits with Jocks and their Doris.*

(Bob Doris MSP for part of Glasgow.)

I think I’m limericked out for now!

One can never be limericked out
With the meter and scanning so stout.
Wiping tear from the eye,
“Keep ’em coming”, I cry.
Do we think you’ll be back? I’ve no doubt.

Dear Roger, believe it or not,
I need time for the work that I’ve got.
Diversions in verse
Make matters worse
And the projects in train go to pot.

Besides, now the limerick shows,
It’s a form that is trite, heaven knows.
And time wasted here
Might be fun, that is clear,
But I must do the music and prose.

.

And finally -and I really, really, really mean it this time.

So, Jeremy and Corbyn don’t rhyme,
Making limericks harder this time.
But since he has led,
So many have bled.
He leaves with a mountain to climb.

The new year will face us with drama.
No Europe and climate’s bad karma.
The Britain we know
Will vanish and go.
Uncertain for worker or farmer. (or Kier Starmer?)

The Scots are unsettled and cross.
They don’t want a Westminster boss.
Brexit is cursed
And grievances nursed.
By a Sturgeon who argues the toss.

Our transport and freedom to move,
Is threatened, we’re stuck in the groove.
Car owning’s a sin,
We just cannot win.
And airlines are told to improve.

Then beef is all methane and air,
With steak eaters blamed for their share.
The meat that they eat,
A forbidable treat,
And farmers are told it’s not fair.

The decade to come will amaze.
Will leave people locked in a daze.
The seismic upheaval
The purging of evil,
Will set torches alight with a blaze.

So look to the past with affection.
A rose coloured tint of reflection.
Be thankful for all;
Those pleasures recall
And banish all thoughts of dejection.

Superb, Vynor.

One of my favourite soap box pieces was a monologue parody to Stanley Holloway’s Lion and Albert. I will reproduce it here for posterity – on the notorious topic of speed enforcement. Dates back a bit… July 2005

There’s a famous road network in Wales
That’s noted as idyllic land
So Chief Constabule Richard Brunstrom
Went there with his ideas in ‘and.

Now Brunstrom’s ideas were quite sweeping
He’d told us his ‘atred of speed.
With Gatsos and Lasers and Radar
To help him prevent t’evil deed.

Besotted with number enforcement
Having seen people do forty four
In t’ road where the limit was forty
He’d ‘ound ’em, so they’d drive no more.

Now Brunstrum had heard about Gatsos
How they was so perfect and ‘arsh
So knowing folk broke the speed limit
He ‘ung quite a few in the marsh.

Now Chief Constabule Richard Brunstrom
He sat in his car at t’roadside
And t’Gatsos they flashed and they reflashed
And therefore the speed did subside

So straight ‘way, the brave little fella
He realisde his scheme was quite smart
Got hundreds and hundreds of Gatsos
And put ’em all over the park

The fines they rolled in like confetti
And Gatsos they flashed less and less
So Chief Constabule Richard Brunstrom
Decided he’d sorted the mess.

But then something happened that scared him
Reports with statistics was shown
Although average speed had subsided.
More sheep-shearers down had been mown

So thinking he’d still got a problem
And speed was the only bad thing
He looked at the numbers in t’circles
And lower speed limits he’d bring.

The Gatsos they started to rattle
As motorists braked harsh and late
And previous hassle-free traffic
Did now with the brakes punctuate

Such low speeds made drivers complacent
And carelessness set in to boot
And when the od sheep-shearing Welshmen
Did into the tarmac set foot

They often got hit by the bull bars
On t’front of the four by four truck
Then Chief Constabule Richard Brunstrom
Decided he’d utter “oh dear”.

He finally realised ‘is folly
Of being besotted with speed
Decided he’d go in to solace
And smoke the odd roll-up of weed.

One Sunday News paper got heads-up
Of Brunstrom’s U-turn over this
It pubilshed an article proudly
But some thought t’were taking the mickey

The evidence corroborated
The KSIs more elevate (*)
And Chief Constabule Richard Brunstrom
Continued to self deprecate.

He finally cracked and went crackers
And started to flannel and flail
The Gatsos had all been well necklaced
Activity beyond the pail.

The Gatsos, they faded and withered
The road speeds they went back to norm
Occasional bikers hit forty
But never hit sheep-shearing Sean.

The Land now returned to idyllic
And Gatsos no more we need fear
The locals forgave Richard Brunstrom
And started to bring him good cheer.

tada….

(*) KSI – a statistical term for Killed and Seriously Injured.

Enjoyed that Roger.

Thank you. I also did a bit of F & S while I was at it…

T’was on a Monday morning an NIP arrived (*1)
It said he had been speeding but he felt it was contrived.
It claimed that he had travelled up to ninety miles per hour,
But he really hadn’t done so, and the tone got rather sour

Oh it all adds dosh for the Scamearti tosh… (*2)

T’was on a Tuesday morning the driver had a moan
He learned of 2020 bugs from SafeSpeed on the phone (*3), (*4)
This would explain discrepancy between the readings shown
So he told the Scams that Laser gun alone he’d not condone

Oh it all adds dosh for the Scamearti tosh…

T’was on a Wednesday morning that the summons came about
Despite the demonstration of the 2020’s doubt
He sent in the defence and so to court he’ll boldly go
And he’ll prove the Laser 2020 ought to rot below

Oh it all adds dosh for the Scamearti tosh…

Twas on a Thursday morning the hearing did take place
As usual it only set a date for face to face
The hearing proper was arranged and Scammers will attend
He wlil prove their rotten lasers drive the people round the bend.

Oh it all adds dosh for the Scamearti tosh…

T’was on a Friday morning that the speeding charge was heard
The magistrates decided that the case was quite absurd
His costs they were awarded and he really felt quite jolly
But a pointing 2020 going home proved that was folly

On Saturday and Sunday post is really quite deprived
So t’was on a Monday morning that an NIP arrived.

*1: NIP: Notice of Intended Prosecution – the dreaded paperwork posted first class and arriving within 14 days of the alleged offence (if later or posted second class it fails).

*2 Scamerati/Scams: A nickname for those people who man speed cameras by stealth – hiding behind bushes or parking their Talivan in rows of similar vehicles, or using from half a mile or more in the distance e.g.

*3 2020: An abbreviation for the LTI 2020 – a laser-technology device that fires a series of pulses at the vehicle and relies on Doppler shift of the echo to determine the speed.

*4 – SafeSpeed, an organisation formed when speed cameras were burgeoning in the early noughties – website is safespeed dot org dot uk slash index1 dot html

In response to “Pot Hole Day”

A slide of a rope,
A slithery slope
And down, down, down.

Drip, drip, from on high
The light from the sky
And the rock, rock, rock.

A cavern around
And green moss on the ground
Near the lake, lake, lake.

Then seen with the torch light
A beam shining bright
The passage, passage, passage.

Narrow and flat
A squeeze with hard hat
And darkness, darkness, darkness.

Water pours through
We discuss with the crew.
Maybe, perhaps, might?

Rain on the way
And flooding they say,
Doubt, doubting, doubtful.

A tug on the line,
Upward incline
Up, up, up.

Safe on the bank,
Common sense thank.
There’s tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Or.
Tyre in shreds
The wheel now embeds,
The pothole has claimed a new victim.

Money for repair
But they don’t care
Try proving the fault as a victim.

Those holes sharp and deep
That lack of upkeep
A cost cutting budgetary victim.

The potholes round here are a deathtrap
For biker and walker with cloth cap.
Whist the frost makes them worse,
It’s a near empty purse
that sees maintenance funds at the stop tap.

I believe it’s the same countrywide.
Roads are bad – even worse near the side.
Has the time really come
When they Get Brexit Done
They should also the locals subside?

Too true Roger. Nicely put!

Covid Cancellations.

It was in the diary set,
Yes it was.
Written in – as “don’t forget”,
Just because.

One of many things to do,
Where to go.
Busy days all running through,
Have to know.

Suddenly it all has stopped –
-Just like that.
Crossings out, occasions lopped,
All is flat.

Get to Dora’s party tea.
Meet the friends.
Optician – glasses new to see,
Set new trends.

Grandkids outing to the zoo.
Speak at rally.
Missing folk and feeling blue.
Real Aunt Sally.

Covid her and Covid there.
Shops and cafѐs in distress.
Supermarkets shelves just bare,
Everything in such a mess.

Government figures looking stern,
Tell the news.
Rules ripped up and new to learn,
Changing views.

But through all this strange debacle,
I’m still me.
Still at heart that happy rascal,
Always will be.

Covert Covid.

Covid, covid all around.
Isolate be safe and sound.
Covid lurking on a door
Covid crossing paths once more.

Covid round with spikes to grip
Looks like mine to sink a ship.
Covid coloured bright, on screen
Covid never ever seen.

Covid seeking to survive
Needs to pass and onward drive.
Covid hiding everywhere
Covid flies across the air.

Covid multiplies inside
From the folly of human pride.
Covid born from stupid acts
Covid with the world reacts.

Covid has no current foe
Human science has far to go.
Covid wanders far and wide
Covid cares not who has died.

Covid is a symptom sure
Of frailty and human flaw.
Covid is just one of many
Covid types, now two a penny.

Covid now a natural curse
Inevitable, with others worse.
Covid plus and then type two,
Covid covoid covex new.

Covid virus comes and stays
For cures are absent now these days.
Covid stands for times like these
When medics fall behind disease.

Covid vaccines soon are due.
As bubonic plague and Spanish flu,
Covid will be memory past
Covid history, gone at last.

************************

Plague and pestilence come and go.
Most pass quietly, that we know.
History tells where man has failed.
Viruses clever have then prevailed.

So it will be ever thus
Something rises without fuss.
Hits and takes us by surprise
We react and fight the rise.

Suddenly the world caves in.
Recovering, we’re slow to win.
Sobered from the fight that’s past.
The world will change -the die is cast.